Oathbringer

Folio: Contemporary Thaylen Female Fashion

58. Burdens

The clouds that usually congregated about the base of the Urithiru plateau were absent today, allowing Dalinar to see down along the endless cliffs below the tower’s perch. He couldn’t see the ground; those cliffs seemed to extend into eternity.

Even with that, he had trouble visualizing how high in the mountains they were. Navani’s scribes could measure height using the air somehow, but their numbers didn’t satisfy him. He wanted to see. Were they really higher than the clouds were over the Shattered Plains? Or did the clouds here in the mountains fly lower?

How contemplative you’ve grown in your old age, he thought to himself, stepping onto one of the Oathgate platforms. Navani held his arm, though Taravangian and Adrotagia had trailed behind on the ramp up.

Navani looked into his eyes as they waited. “Still bothered by the latest vision?”

That wasn’t what was distracting him at the moment, but he nodded anyway. Indeed, he was worried. Odium. Though the Stormfather had returned to his previous self-confident ways, Dalinar could not shake the memory of the mighty spren whimpering in fright.

Navani and Jasnah had eagerly feasted on his account of meeting the dark god, though they’d chosen not to publish this one for wide dissemination.

“Maybe,” Navani said, “this was somehow another preplanned event, placed by Honor for you to encounter.”

Dalinar shook his head. “Odium felt real. I truly interacted with him.”

“You can interact with the people in the visions. Just not the Almighty himself.”

“Because, you theorize, the Almighty couldn’t create a full simulacrum of a god. No. I saw eternity, Navani … a divine vastness.”

He shivered. For now, they had decided to suspend use of the visions. Who knew what risk they’d run by bringing people’s minds in and potentially exposing them to Odium?

Of course, who’s to say what he can and cannot touch in the real world? Dalinar thought. He looked up again, the sun burning white, the sky a faded blue. He would have thought that being above the clouds would give him more perspective.

Taravangian and Adrotagia finally arrived, followed by Taravangian’s strange Surgebinder, the short-haired woman, Malata. Dalinar’s guards brought up the rear. Rial saluted him. Again.

“You don’t need to salute me each time I look at you, Sergeant,” Dalinar said dryly.

“Just trying ta be extra careful, sir.” The leathery, dark-skinned man saluted one more time. “Wouldn’t want ta be reported for being disrespectful.”

“I didn’t mention you by name, Rial.”

“Everyone knew anyway, Brightlord.”

“Imagine that.”

Rial grinned, and Dalinar waved for the man to open his canteen, then sniffed for alcohol. “It’s clean this time?”

“Absolutely! You chastised me last time. Water only.”

“And so you keep the alcohol…”

“In my flask, sir,” Rial said. “Right leg pocket of my uniform. Don’t worry though. It’s buttoned up tight, and I’ve completely forgotten it’s there. I’ll discover it when duty is done.”

“I’m sure.” Dalinar took Navani by the arm and followed Adrotagia and Taravangian.

“You could have someone else assigned to guard you,” Navani whispered to him. “That greasy man is … unfitting.”

“I actually like him,” Dalinar admitted. “Reminds me of some of my friends from the old days.”

The control building at the center of this platform was shaped like the others—mosaics on the floor, keyhole mechanism in the curved wall. The patterns on the floor, however, were glyphs in the Dawnchant. This building would be identical to one in Thaylen City—and when engaged, it would swap places with that one.

Ten platforms here, ten across the world. The glyphs on the floors indicated that it might somehow be possible to transport directly from one city to another without coming to Urithiru first. They hadn’t discovered how that might work, and for now each gate could swap only with its twin—and they had to first be unlocked from both sides.

Navani went straight for the control mechanism. Malata joined her, watching over Navani’s shoulder as she fiddled with the keyhole, which was in the center of a ten-pointed star on a metal plate. “Yes,” Navani said, consulting some notes. “The mechanism is the same as the one to the Shattered Plains. You need to twist this here…”

She wrote something via spanreed to Thaylen City, then ushered them back outside. A moment later, the building itself flashed—a ring of Stormlight running around it, like the afterimage of a firebrand being waved in the dark. Then Kaladin and Shallan emerged from the doorway.

“It worked!” Shallan said as she bounced out, bubbling over with eagerness. In contrast, Kaladin stepped out with a firm gait. “Transferring only the control buildings, instead of the entire platform, should save us Stormlight.”

“Up until now,” Navani said, “we’ve been working the Oathgates at full power for every transfer. I suspect that’s not the only mistake we’ve made in regard to this place and its devices. Anyway, now that you two have unlocked the Thaylen gate on their end, we should be able to use it at will—with the help of a Radiant, of course.”

“Sir,” Kaladin said to Dalinar, “the queen is prepared to meet with you.”

Taravangian, Navani, Adrotagia, and Malata entered the building, though Shallan started down the ramp back toward Urithiru. Dalinar took Kaladin by the arm as he moved to follow.

“The flight in front of the highstorm went well?” Dalinar asked.

“No problems, sir. I’m confident it will work.”

“Next storm then, soldier, make for Kholinar. I’m counting on you and Adolin to keep Elhokar from doing anything too foolhardy. Be careful. Something strange is going on inside the city, and I can’t afford to lose you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As you fly, wave to the lands along the south fork of the Deathbend River. The parshmen may have conquered them by now, but they actually belong to you.”

“… Sir?”

“You’re a Shardbearer, Kaladin. That makes you at least fourth dahn, which should be a landed title. Elhokar found you a nice portion along the river that reverted to the crown last year at the death of its brightlord, who had no heir. It’s not as large as some, but it is yours now.”

Kaladin looked stunned. “Are there villages on this land, sir?”

“Six or seven; one town of note. The river is one of the most consistent in Alethkar. It doesn’t even dry up in the Midpeace. That’s on a good caravan route. Your people will do well.”

“Sir. You know I don’t want this burden.”

“If you’d wanted a life without burdens, you shouldn’t have said the oaths,” Dalinar said. “We don’t get to choose things like this, son. Just make sure you have a good steward, wise scribes, and some solid men of the fifth and sixth dahns to lead the towns. Personally, I’ll count us lucky—you included—if at the end of all this we still have a kingdom to burden us.”

Kaladin nodded slowly. “My family is in northern Alethkar. Now that I’ve practiced flying with the storms, I’ll want to go and fetch them, once I get back from the Kholinar mission.”

“Get that Oathgate open, and you can have as much time as you want. I guarantee, the best thing you can do for your family right now is keep Alethkar from falling.”

By spanreed reports, the Voidbringers were slowly moving northward, and had captured much of Alethkar. Relis Ruthar had tried to gather the remaining Alethi forces in the country, but had been pushed back toward Herdaz, suffering at the hands of the Fused. However, the Voidbringers weren’t killing noncombatants. Kaladin’s family should be safe enough.

The captain jogged off down the ramp, and Dalinar watched, thinking about his own burdens. Once Elhokar and Adolin returned from the mission to rescue Kholinar, they’d need to get on with Elhokar’s highking arrangement. He still hadn’t announced that, not even to the highprinces.

A part of Dalinar knew he should simply go forward with it now, naming Adolin highprince and stepping down, but he delayed. This would make a final separation between himself and his homeland. He’d at least like to help recover the capital first.

Dalinar joined the others in the control building, then nodded toward Malata. She summoned her Shardblade and inserted it into the slot. The metal of the plate shifted and flowed, matching the shape of the Blade. They’d run tests, and though the walls of the buildings were thin, you couldn’t see the other end of the Shardblade jutting through. The Blade was melding into the mechanism.

Malata pushed against the side of the Blade’s hilt. The inner wall of the control building rotated. The floor underneath the mosaics began glowing, illuminating them like stained glass. She stopped her Blade at the proper position, and a flash of light later, they had arrived. Dalinar stepped out of the small building onto a platform in distant Thaylen City, a port on the western coast of a large southern island near the Frostlands.

Here the platform that surrounded the Oathgate had been turned into a sculpture garden—but most of the sculptures lay toppled and broken. Queen Fen waited on the ramp up with her attendants. Shallan had probably told her to wait there in case the room-only transfer didn’t work.

The platform was high up in the city, and as Dalinar neared the edge, he saw that it gave an excellent view. The sight of it made Dalinar’s breath catch.

Thaylen City was a mountainside metropolis like Kharbranth, placed with its back to a mountain to provide shelter from the highstorms. Though Dalinar had never been to the city before, he’d studied maps, and knew Thaylen City had once included only a section near the center they called the Ancient Ward. This raised portion had a distinctive shape formed by the way the rocks had been carved millennia ago.

The city had long since been built beyond that. A lower section called the Low Ward cluttered the stones around the base of the wall—a wide, squat fortification to the west that ran from the cliffs on one side of the city to the mountain foothills on the other.

Above and behind the Ancient Ward, the city had expanded up a series of steplike tiers. These Loft Wards ended at a majestic Royal Ward at the top of the city, holding palaces, mansions, and temples. The Oathgate platform was on this level, at the northern edge of the city, close to the cliffs down to the ocean.

Once, this place would have been stunning because of its magnificent architecture. Today, Dalinar paused for a different reason. Dozens … hundreds of buildings had fallen in. Entire sections had become rubble when higher structures, smashed by the Everstorm, had slid down on top of them. What had once been one of the finest cities of all Roshar—known for its art, trade, and fine marble—was cracked and broken, like a dinner plate dropped by a careless maid.

Ironically, many more modest buildings at the base of the city—in the wall’s shadow—had weathered the storm. But the famous Thaylen docks were out beyond this fortification, on the small western peninsula fronting the city. This area had once been densely developed—likely with warehouses, taverns, and shops. All wood.

They’d been swept away completely. Only smashed ruins remained.

Stormfather. No wonder Fen had resisted his distracting demands. Most of this destruction had been caused by that first full Everstorm; Thaylen City was particularly exposed, with no land to break the storm as it surged across the western ocean. Beyond that, many more of these structures had been of wood, particularly in the Loft Wards. A luxury available to a place like Thaylen City, which up until now had been subject only to the most mild of the stormwinds.

The Everstorm had come five times now, though subsequent passings had—blessedly—been tamer than the first. Dalinar lingered, taking it in, before leading his group to where Queen Fen stood on the ramp with a collection of scribes, lighteyes, and guards. This included her prince consort, Kmakl, an aging Thaylen man with matching mustaches and eyebrows, both drooping down to frame his face. He wore a vest and cap, and was attended by two ardents as scribes.

“Fen…” Dalinar said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“We lived too long in luxury, it seems,” Fen said, and he was momentarily surprised by her accent. It hadn’t been present in the visions. “I remember as a child worrying that everyone in other countries would discover how nice things were here, with the mild straits weather and the broken storms. I assumed we’d be swarmed with immigrants someday.”

She turned toward her city, and sighed softly.

How would it have been to live here? He tried to imagine living in homes that didn’t feel like fortresses. Buildings of wood with broad windows. Roofs needed only for keeping the rain off. He’d heard people joke that in Kharbranth, you had to hang a bell outside to know when the highstorm had arrived, for otherwise you’d miss it. Fortunately for Taravangian, that city’s slightly southern orientation had prevented devastation on this scale.

“Well,” Fen said, “let’s do a tour. I think there are a few places worth seeing that are still standing.”

59. Bondsmith

“The temple of Shalash,” Fen said, gesturing as they entered.

To Dalinar, it looked much like the others she’d shown them: a large space with a high-domed ceiling and massive braziers. Here, ardents burned thousands of glyphwards for the people, who supplicated the Almighty for mercy and aid. Smoke pooled in the dome before leaking out through holes in the roof, like water through a sieve.

How many prayers have we burned, Dalinar wondered uncomfortably, to a god who is no longer there? Or is someone else receiving them instead?

Dalinar nodded politely as Fen recounted the ancient origin of the structure and listed some of the kings or queens who had been crowned here. She explained the significance of the elaborate design on the rear wall, and led them around the sides to view the carvings. It was a pity to see several statues with the faces broken off. How had the storm gotten to them in here?

When they were done, she led them back outside onto the Royal Ward, where the palanquins waited. Navani nudged him.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Stop scowling.”

“I’m not scowling.”

“You’re bored.”

“I’m not … scowling.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Six temples?” he asked. “This city is practically rubble, and we’re looking at temples.”

Ahead, Fen and her consort climbed into their palanquin. So far, Kmakl’s only part in the tour had been to stand behind Fen and—whenever she said something he thought significant—nod for her scribes to record it in the official histories.

Kmakl didn’t carry a sword. In Alethkar, that would indicate the man—at least one of his rank—was a Shardbearer, but that was not the case here. Thaylenah had only five Blades—and three suits of Plate—each held by an ancient family line sworn to defend the throne. Couldn’t Fen have taken him on a tour to see those Shards instead?

“Scowling…” Navani said.

“It’s what they expect of me,” Dalinar said, nodding toward the Thaylen officers and scribes. Near the front, one group of soldiers in particular had watched Dalinar with keen interest. Perhaps this tour’s true intent was to give those lighteyes a chance to study him.

The palanquin he shared with Navani was scented like rockbud blossoms. “The progression from temple to temple,” Navani said softly as their bearers lifted the palanquin, “is traditional in Thaylen City. Visiting all ten allows a survey of the Royal Ward, and is a not-so-subtle reinforcement of the throne’s Vorin piety. They’ve had trouble with the church in the past.”

“I sympathize. Do you think if I explain I’m a heretic too, she’ll stop with all the pomp?”

Navani leaned forward in the small palanquin, putting her freehand on his knee. “Dear one, if this kind of thing irks you so, we could send a diplomat.”

“I am a diplomat.”

“Dalinar…”

“This is my duty now, Navani. I have to do my duty. Every time I’ve ignored it in the past, something terrible has happened.” He took her hands in his. “I complain because I can be unguarded with you. I’ll keep the scowling to a minimum. I promise.”

As their porters skillfully carried them up some steps, Dalinar watched out the palanquin window. This upper section of the city had weathered the storm well enough, as many of the structures here were of thick stone. Still, some had cracked, and a few roofs had fallen in. The palanquin passed a fallen statue, which had broken off at the ankles and toppled from a ledge toward the Loft Wards.

This city was hit harder than any I’ve had a report about, he thought. This level of destruction is unique. Is it just all that wood, and the lack of anything to blunt the storm? Or is it more? Some reports of the Everstorm mentioned no winds, only lightning. Others confusingly reported no rain, but burning embers. The Everstorm varied greatly, even within the same passing.

“It’s probably comforting for Fen to do something familiar,” Navani told him quietly as the porters set them down at the next stop. “This tour is a reminder of days before the city suffered such terrors.”

He nodded. With that in mind, it was easier to bear the thought of yet another temple.

Outside, they found Fen emerging from her palanquin. “The temple of Battah, one of the oldest in the city. But of course the greatest sight here is the Simulacrum of Paralet, the grand statue that…” She trailed off, and Dalinar followed her gaze to the stone feet of the statue nearby. “Oh. Right.”

“Let’s see the temple,” Dalinar urged. “You said it’s one of the oldest. Which are older?”

“Only Ishi’s temple is more ancient,” she said. “But we won’t linger there, or here.”

“We won’t?” Dalinar asked, noticing the lack of prayer smoke from this roof. “Is the structure damaged?”

“The structure? No, not the structure.”

A pair of tired ardents emerged and walked down the steps, their robes stained with flecks of red. Dalinar looked to Fen. “Do you mind if I go up anyway?”

“If you wish.”

As Dalinar climbed the steps with Navani, he caught a scent on the wind. The scent of blood, which reminded him of battle. At the top, the sight inside the doors of the temple was a familiar one. Hundreds of wounded covered the marble floor, lying on simple pallets, painspren reaching out like orange sinew hands between them.

“We had to improvise,” Fen said, stepping up behind him in the doorway, “after our traditional hospitals filled.”

“So many?” Navani said, safehand to her mouth. “Can’t some be sent home to heal, to their families?”

Dalinar read the answers in the suffering people. Some were waiting to die; they’d bled internally, or had rampant infections, marked by tiny red rotspren on their skin. Others had no homes left, evidenced by the families that huddled around a wounded mother, father, or child.

Storms … Dalinar felt almost ashamed at how well his people had weathered the Everstorm. When he eventually turned to go, he almost ran into Taravangian, who haunted the doorway like a spirit. Frail, draped in soft robes, the aged monarch was weeping openly as he regarded the people in the temple.

“Please,” he said. “Please. My surgeons are in Vedenar, an easy trip through the Oathgates. Let me bring them. Let me ease this suffering.”

Fen pursed her lips to a thin line. She’d agreed to meet, but that didn’t make her a part of Dalinar’s proposed coalition. But what could she say to a plea like that?

“Your help would be appreciated,” she said.

Dalinar suppressed a smile. She’d conceded one step by letting them activate the Oathgate. This was another one. Taravangian, you are a gem.

“Lend me a scribe and spanreed,” Taravangian said. “I will have my Radiant bring aid immediately.”

Fen gave the necessary orders, her consort nodding for the words to be recorded. As they walked back toward the palanquins, Taravangian lingered on the steps, looking out over the city.

“Your Majesty?” Dalinar asked, pausing.

“I can see my home in this, Brightlord.” He put a trembling hand against the wall of the temple for support. “I blink bleary eyes, and I see Kharbranth destroyed in war. And I ask, ‘What must I do to preserve them?’ ”

“We will protect them, Taravangian. I vow it.”

“Yes … Yes, I believe you, Blackthorn.” He took a long, drawn-out breath, and seemed to wilt further. “I think … I think I shall remain here and await my surgeons. Please go on.”

Taravangian sat down on the steps as the rest of them walked away. At his palanquin, Dalinar looked back up and saw the old man sitting there, hands clasped before himself, liver-spotted head bowed, almost in the attitude of one kneeling before a burning prayer.

Fen stepped up beside Dalinar. The white ringlets of her eyebrows shook in the wind. “He is far more than people think of him, even after his accident. I’ve often said it.”

Dalinar nodded.

“But,” Fen continued, “he acts as if this city is a burial ground. That is not the case. We will rebuild from stone. My engineers plan to put walls on the front of each ward. We’ll get our feet underneath us again. We just have to get ahead of the storm. It’s the sudden loss of labor that really crippled us. Our parshmen…”

“My armies could do much to help clear rubble, move stones, and rebuild,” Dalinar said. “Simply give the word, and you will have access to thousands of willing hands.”

Fen said nothing, though Dalinar caught muttered words from the young soldiers and attendants waiting beside the palanquins. Dalinar let his attention linger on them, picking out one in particular. Tall for a Thaylen, the young man had blue eyes, with eyebrows combed and starched straight back alongside his head. His crisp uniform was, naturally, cut in the Thaylen style, with a shorter jacket that buttoned tight across the upper chest.

That will be her son, Dalinar thought, studying the young man’s features. By Thaylen tradition, he would be merely another officer, not the heir. The monarchy of the kingdom was not a hereditary position.

Heir or not, this young man was important. He whispered something jeering, and the others nodded, muttering and glaring at Dalinar.

Navani nudged Dalinar and gave him a questioning look.

Later, he mouthed, then turned to Queen Fen. “So the temple of Ishi is full of wounded as well?”

“Yes. Perhaps we can skip that.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the lower wards of the city,” Dalinar said. “Perhaps the grand bazaar I’ve heard so much about?”

Navani winced, and Fen grew stiff.

“It was … by the docks then, was it?” Dalinar said, looking out at the rubble-filled plain before the city. He’d assumed that it would have been in the Ancient Ward, the central part of the city. He should have paid better attention to those maps, apparently.

“I have refreshments set up at the courtyard of Talenelat,” Fen said. “It was to be the last stop on our tour. Shall we go directly there now?”

Dalinar nodded, and they reboarded the palanquins. Inside, he leaned forward and spoke softly to Navani. “Queen Fen is not an absolute authority.”

“Even your brother wasn’t absolutely powerful.”

“But the Thaylen monarch is worse. The councils of merchants and naval officers pick the new monarch, after all. They have great influence in the city.”

“Yes. Where are you going with this?”

“It means she can’t accede to my requests on her own,” Dalinar said. “She can never agree to military aid as long as elements in the city believe that I’m bent on domination.” He found some nuts in an armrest compartment and began munching on them.

“We don’t have time for a drawn-out political thaw,” Navani said, waving for him to hand her some nuts. “Teshav might have family in the city she can lean on.”

“We could try that. Or … I have an idea budding.”

“Does it involve punching someone?”

He nodded. To which she sighed.

“They’re waiting for a spectacle,” Dalinar said. “They want to see what the Blackthorn will do. Queen Fen … she was the same way, in the visions. She didn’t open up to me until I gave her my honest face.”

“Your honest face doesn’t have to be that of a killer, Dalinar.”

“I’ll try not to kill anyone,” he said. “I just need to give them a lesson. A display.”

A lesson. A display.

Those words caught in his mind, and he found himself reaching back through his memories toward something still fuzzy, undefined. Something … something to do with the Rift and … and with Sadeas?

The memory darted away, just beneath the surface of his awareness. His subconscious shied from it, and he flinched like he’d been slapped.

In that direction … in that direction was pain.

“Dalinar?” Navani said. “I suppose it’s possible you’re right. Perhaps the people seeing you be polite and calm is actually bad for our message.”

“More scowls, then?”

She sighed. “More scowls.”

He grinned.

“Or a grin,” she added. “From you, one of those can be more disturbing.”

The courtyard of Talenelat was a large stone square dedicated to Stonesinew, Herald of Soldiers. Atop a set of steps was the temple itself, but they didn’t get a chance to look inside, for the main entrance had collapsed. A large, rectangular stone block—that had once spanned the top of the doorway—rested wedged downward inside it.

Beautiful reliefs covered the walls on the outside, depicting the Herald Talenelat standing his ground alone against a tide of Voidbringers. Unfortunately, these had cracked in hundreds of places. A large black scorch at the top of the wall showed where the strange Everstorm lightning had blasted the building.

None of the other temples had fared this poorly. It was as if Odium had a grudge against this one in particular.

Talenelat, Dalinar thought. He was the one they abandoned. The one I lost …

“I have some business to attend to,” Fen said. “With trade to the city disrupted so seriously, I haven’t much to offer as victuals. Some nuts and fruit, some salted fish. We’ve laid them out for you to enjoy. I’ll return later so we can conference. In the meantime, my attendants will see to your needs.”

“Thank you,” Dalinar said. They both knew she was making him wait on purpose. It wouldn’t be long—maybe a half hour. Not enough to be an insult, but enough to establish that she was still the authority here, no matter how powerful he was.

Even though he wanted some time with her people, he found himself annoyed at the gamesmanship of it. Fen and her consort withdrew, leaving most of the rest behind to enjoy the repast.

Dalinar, instead, decided to pick a fight.

Fen’s son would do. He did appear the most critical among those talking. I don’t want to seem the aggressor, Dalinar thought, positioning himself close to the young man. And I should pretend I haven’t guessed who he is.

“The temples were nice,” Navani said, joining him. “But you didn’t enjoy them, did you? You wished to see something more militaristic.”

An excellent opening. “You are right,” he said. “You there. Captainlord. I’m not one for dallying. Show me the city’s wall. That is something of real interest.”

“Are you serious?” Fen’s son said in Thaylen-accented Alethi, words all mashed together.

“Always. What? Are your armies in such bad shape that you’d be embarrassed to let me see them?”

“I’m not going to let an enemy general inspect our defenses.”

“I’m not your enemy, son.”

“I’m not your son, tyrant.”

Dalinar made a big show of looking resigned. “You’ve been shadowing me this entire day, soldier, speaking words that I’ve chosen not to hear. You’re close to a line that, if crossed, will earn a response.”

The young man paused, showing some measure of restraint. He weighed what he was getting himself into, and decided that the risk was worth the reward. Humiliate the Blackthorn here, and maybe he could save his city—at least as he saw it.

“I regret only,” the man snapped, “that I didn’t speak loudly enough for you to hear the insults, despot.”

Dalinar sighed loudly, then began unbuttoning his uniform jacket, leaving himself in the snug undershirt.

“No Shards,” the young man said. “Longswords.”

“As you wish.” Fen’s son didn’t have Shards, though he could have borrowed them if Dalinar insisted. Dalinar preferred this anyway.

The man covered his nervousness by demanding one of his attendants use a rock to draw a ring on the ground. Rial and Dalinar’s guards approached, anticipationspren whipping nervously in their wakes. Dalinar waved them back.

“Don’t hurt him,” Navani whispered. She hesitated. “But don’t lose either.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Dalinar said, handing her his jacket. “I can’t promise the part about losing.” She didn’t see—but of course she didn’t. He couldn’t simply beat this man up. All that would do was prove to the rest of them that Dalinar was a bully.

He strode to the ring and paced it off, to memorize how many steps he could take without being forced out.

“I said longswords,” the young man said, weapon in hand. “Where’s your sword?”

“We’ll do this by alternating advantage, three minutes,” Dalinar said. “To first blood. You may lead off.”

The young man froze. Alternating advantage. The youth would have three minutes armed, against Dalinar unarmed. If Dalinar survived without being bloodied or leaving the ring, he’d have three minutes against his opponent in the reverse: Dalinar armed, the young man unarmed.

It was a ridiculous imbalance, usually only seen in sparring practice, when men trained for situations where they might be unarmed against an armed foe. And then, you’d never use real weapons.

“I…” the young man said. “I’ll switch to a knife.”

“No need. Longsword is fine.”

The young man gaped at Dalinar. Songs and stories told of the heroic unarmed man facing down many armed opponents, but in truth, fighting a single armed foe was incredibly difficult.

Fen’s son shrugged. “As much as I’d love to be known as the man who bested the Blackthorn on even terms,” he said, “I’ll take an unfair fight. But have your men here swear an oath that if this goes poorly for you, I’ll not be named an assassin. You yourself set these terms.”

“Done,” Dalinar said, looking to Rial and the others, who saluted and said the words.

A Thaylen scribe stood to witness the bout. She counted off the start, and the young man came for Dalinar immediately, swinging like he meant it. Good. If you were going to agree to a fight like this, you shouldn’t hesitate.

Dalinar dodged, then dropped into a wrestling stance, though he didn’t intend to get close enough to try for a hold. As the scribe counted off the time, Dalinar continued to dodge attacks, hovering around the outside of the ring, careful not to step over the line.

Fen’s son—though aggressive—displayed some innate wariness. The young man probably could have forced Dalinar out, but he kept testing instead. He came in again, and Dalinar scrambled away from the flashing sword.

The young man grew concerned and frustrated. Perhaps if it had been cloudy, he would have seen the faint glow of the Stormlight Dalinar was holding.

As the countdown drew near the end, the young man grew more frantic. He knew what was coming. Three minutes alone in a ring, unarmed against the Blackthorn. The attacks strayed from hesitant, to determined, to desperate.

All right, Dalinar thought. Just about now …

The countdown hit ten. The young man came at him with a last-ditch, all-out assault.

Dalinar stood up, relaxed, and held his hands to the sides so that the audience could see him intentionally fail to dodge. Then he stepped into the young man’s thrust.

The longsword hit him right in the chest, just to the left of his heart. Dalinar grunted at the impact, and the pain, but managed to take the sword in a way that it missed the spine.

Blood filled one of his lungs, and Stormlight rushed to heal him. The young man looked aghast, as if—despite everything—he hadn’t expected, or wanted, to land such a decisive blow.

The pain faded. Dalinar coughed, spat blood to the side, then took the young man’s hand by the wrist, shoving the sword farther through his chest.

The young man released the sword hilt and scrabbled backward, eyes bulging.

“That was a good thrust,” Dalinar said, voice watery and ragged. “I could see how worried you were at the end; others might have let their form suffer.”

The queen’s son dropped to his knees, staring up as Dalinar stepped closer and loomed over him. Blood seeped around the wound, staining his shirt, until the Stormlight finally had time to heal the external cuts. Dalinar drew in enough that he glowed even in the daylight.

The courtyard had grown silent. Scribes held their mouths, aghast. Soldiers put hands on swords, shockspren—like yellow triangles—shattering around them.

Navani shared a sly smile with him, arms folded.

Dalinar took the sword by the hilt and slid it from his chest. Stormlight rushed to heal the wound.

To his credit, the young man stood up and stammered, “It’s your turn, Blackthorn. I’m ready.”

“No, you blooded me.”

“You let me.”

Dalinar took off his shirt and tossed it at the youth. “Give me your shirt, and we’ll call it even.”

The youth caught the bloody shirt, then looked up at Dalinar in befuddlement.

“I don’t want your life, son,” Dalinar said. “I don’t want your city or your kingdom. If I’d wanted to conquer Thaylenah, I wouldn’t offer you a smiling face and promises of peace. You should know that much from my reputation.”

He turned to the watching officers, lighteyes, and scribes. He’d accomplished his goal. They were in awe of him, afraid. He had them in his hand.

It was shocking, then, to feel his own sudden, stark displeasure. For some reason, those frightened faces hit him harder than the sword had.

Angry, ashamed for a reason he still didn’t understand, he turned and strode away, up the steps from the courtyard toward the temple above. He waved away Navani when she came to speak with him.

Alone. He needed a moment alone. He climbed to the temple, then turned and sat down on the steps, putting his back against the stone block that had fallen into the doorway. The Stormfather rumbled in the back of his mind. And beyond that sound was …

Disappointment. What had he just accomplished? He said he didn’t want to conquer this people, but what story did his actions tell? I’m stronger than you, they said. I don’t need to fight you. I could crush you without exerting myself.

Was that what it should feel like to have the Knights Radiant come to your city?

Dalinar felt a twisting nausea deep in his gut. He’d performed stunts like this dozens of times throughout his life—from recruiting Teleb back in his youth, to bullying Elhokar into accepting that Dalinar wasn’t trying to kill him, to more recently forcing Kadash to fight him in the practice chamber.

Below, people gathered around Fen’s son, talking animatedly. The young man rubbed his chest, as if he’d been the one who’d been struck.

In the back of Dalinar’s mind, he heard that same insistent voice. The one he’d heard from the beginning of the visions.

Unite them.

“I’m trying,” Dalinar whispered.

Why couldn’t he ever convince anyone peacefully? Why couldn’t he get people to listen without first pounding them bloody—or, conversely, shocking them with his own wounds?

He sighed, leaning back and resting his head against the stones of the broken temple.

Unite us. Please.

That was … a different voice. A hundred of them overlapping, making the same plea, so quiet he could barely hear them. He closed his eyes, trying to pick out the source of those voices.

Stone? Yes, he had a sensation of chunks of stone in pain. Dalinar started. He was hearing the spren of the temple itself. These temple walls had existed as a single unit for centuries. Now the pieces—cracked and ruined—hurt. They still viewed themselves as a beautiful set of carvings, not a ruined facade with fallen chunks scattered about. They longed to again be a single entity, unmarred.

The spren of the temple cried with many voices, like men weeping over their broken bodies on a battlefield.

Storms. Does everything I imagine have to be about destruction? About dying, broken bodies, smoke in the air and blood on the stones?

The warmth inside of him said that it did not.

He stood and turned, full of Stormlight, and seized the fallen stone that blocked the doorway. Straining, he shifted the block until he could slip in—squatting—and press his shoulders against it.

He took a deep breath, then heaved upward. Stone ground stone as he lifted the block toward the top of the doorway. He got it high enough, then positioned his hands immediately over his head. With a final push, shouting, he pressed with legs, back, and arms together, shoving the block upward with everything he had. Stormlight raged inside him, and his joints popped—then healed—as he inched the stone back into place above the doorway.

He could feel the temple urging him onward. It wanted so badly to be whole again. Dalinar drew in more Stormlight, as much as he could hold, draining every gemstone he’d brought.

Sweat streaming across his face, he got the block close enough that it felt right again. Power flooded through his arms into it, then seeped across the stones.

The carvings popped back together.

The stone lintel in his hands lifted and settled into place. Light filled the cracks in the stones and knit them back together, and gloryspren burst around Dalinar’s head.

When the glow faded, the front wall of the majestic temple—including the doorway and the cracked reliefs—had been restored. Dalinar faced it, shirtless and coated in sweat, feeling twenty years younger.

No, the man he’d been twenty years ago could never have done this.

Bondsmith.

A hand touched his arm; Navani’s soft fingers. “Dalinar … what did you do?”

“I listened.” The power was good for far, far more than breaking. We’ve been ignoring that. We’ve been ignoring answers right in front of our eyes.

He looked back over his shoulder at the crowd climbing the steps, gathering around. “You,” Dalinar said to a scribe. “You’re the one who wrote to Urithiru and sent for Taravangian’s surgeons?”

“Y … yes, Brightlord,” she said.

“Write again. Send for my son Renarin.”

Queen Fen found him in the courtyard of the temple of Battah, the one with the large broken statue. Her son—now wearing Dalinar’s bloodied shirt tied around his waist, like some kind of girdle—led a crew of ten men with ropes. They’d just gotten the hips of the statue settled back into place; Dalinar drained Stormlight from borrowed spheres, sealing the stone together.

“I think I found the left arm!” a man called from below, where the bulk of the statue had toppled through the roof of a mansion. Dalinar’s team of soldiers and lighteyes whooped and rushed down the steps.

“I did not expect to find the Blackthorn shirtless,” Queen Fen said, “and … playing sculptor?”

“I can only fix inanimate things,” Dalinar said, wiping his hands on a rag tied at his waist, exhausted. Using this much Stormlight was a new experience for him, and quite draining. “My son does the more important work.”

A small family left the temple above. Judging by the father’s tentative steps, supported by his sons, it seemed the man had broken a leg or two in the most recent storm. The burly man gestured for his sons to step back, took a few steps on his own—and then, his eyes wide, did a short skip.

Dalinar knew that feeling: the lingering effects of Stormlight. “I should have seen it earlier—I should have sent for him the moment I saw those wounded. I’m a fool.” Dalinar shook his head. “Renarin has the ability to heal. He is new to his powers, as I am to mine, and can best heal those who were recently wounded. I wonder if it’s similar to what I’m doing. Once the soul grows accustomed to the wound, it’s much harder to fix.”

A single awespren burst around Fen as the family approached, bowing and speaking in Thaylen, the father grinning like a fool. For a moment, Dalinar felt he could almost understand what they were saying. As if a part of him were stretching to bond to the man. A curious experience, one he didn’t quite know how to interpret.

When they left, Dalinar turned to the queen. “I don’t know how long Renarin will hold out, and I don’t know how many of those wounds will be new enough for him to fix. But it is something we could do.”

Men called below, heaving a stone arm out through the window of the mansion.

“I see you’ve charmed Kdralk as well,” Fen noted.

“He’s a good lad,” Dalinar said.

“He was determined to find a way to duel you. I hear you gave him that. You’re going to roll over this whole city, charming each person in turn, aren’t you?”

“Hopefully not. That sounds like it would take a lot of time.”

A young man came running down from the temple, holding a child with floppy hair who—though his clothing was torn and dusty—was smiling with a broad grin. The youth bowed to the queen, then thanked Dalinar in broken Alethi. Renarin kept blaming the healings on him.

Fen watched them go with an unreadable expression on her face.

“I need your help, Fen,” Dalinar whispered.

“I find it hard to believe you need anything, considering what you’ve done today.”

“Shardbearers can’t hold ground.”

She looked at him, frowning.

“Sorry. That’s a military maxim. It … never mind. Fen, I have Radiants, yes—but they, no matter how powerful, won’t win this war. More importantly, I can’t see what I’m missing. That’s why I need you.

“I think like an Alethi, as do most of my advisors. We consider the war, the conflict, but miss important facts. When I first learned of Renarin’s powers, I thought only of restoring people on the battlefield to continue the fight. I need you; I need the Azish. I need a coalition of leaders who see what I don’t, because we’re facing an enemy that doesn’t think like any we’ve faced before.” He bowed his head to her. “Please. Join me, Fen.”

“I’ve already opened that gate, and I’m talking to the councils about giving aid to your war effort. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not close, Fen. I want you to join me.”

“The difference is?”

“The distinction between referring to it as ‘your’ war, and ‘our’ war.”

“You’re relentless.” She took a deep breath, then cut him off as he tried to object. “I suppose that is what we need right now. All right, Blackthorn. You, me, Taravangian. The first real united Vorin coalition the world has seen since the Hierocracy. It’s unfortunate that two of us lead kingdoms that are in ruin.”

“Three,” Dalinar said with a grunt. “Kholinar is besieged by the enemy. I’ve sent help, but for now, Alethkar is an occupied kingdom.”

“Wonderful. Well, I think I can persuade the factions in my city to let your troops come and help here. If everything goes well with that, I will write to the Prime of Azir. Maybe that will help.”

“I’m certain it will. Now that you’ve joined, the Azish Oathgate is the most essential to our cause.”

“Well, they’re going to be tricky,” Fen said. “The Azish aren’t as desperate as I am—and frankly, they aren’t Vorin. People here, myself included, respond to a good push from a determined monarch. Strength and passion, the Vorin way. But those tactics will just make the Azish dig in and rebuff you harder.”

He rubbed his chin. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I don’t think you’ll find it very appealing.”

“Try me,” Dalinar said. “I’m starting to appreciate that the way I usually do things has severe limitations.”

60. Winds and Oaths

The storm did not belong to Kaladin.

He claimed the skies, and to an extent the winds. Highstorms were something different, like a country in which he was a visiting dignitary. He retained some measure of respect, but he also lacked real authority.

While fighting the Assassin in White, Kaladin had traveled with the highstorm by flying at the very front of the stormwall, like a leaf caught in a wave. That method—with the full force of the highstorm raging at his feet—seemed far too risky to use when bringing others. Fortunately, during their trip to Thaylenah, he and Shallan had tested other methods. It turned out he could still draw upon the storm’s power while flying above it, so long as he stayed within a hundred feet or so of the stormclouds.

He soared there now, with two bridgemen and Elhokar’s chosen team. The sun shone brightly above, and the eternal storm extended in all directions below. Swirling black and grey, lit by sparks of lightning. Rumbling, as if angry at the small group of stowaways. They couldn’t see the stormwall now; they’d lagged far behind that. Their angle to Kholinar required them to travel more northward than westward as they cut across the Unclaimed Hills toward northern Alethkar.

There was a mesmerizing beauty to the storm’s churning patterns, and Kaladin had to forcibly keep his attention on his charges. There were six of those, which made their team nine in total, counting himself, Skar, and Drehy.

King Elhokar was at the front. They couldn’t bring their suits of Shardplate; Lashings didn’t work on those. Instead, the king wore thick clothing and a strange kind of glass-fronted mask to block the wind. Shallan had suggested those; they were apparently naval equipment. Adolin came next. Then two of Shallan’s soldiers—the sloppy deserters she’d collected like wounded axehound pups—and one maidservant. Kaladin didn’t understand why they’d brought those three, but the king had insisted.

Adolin and the others were bundled up as much as the king, which made Shallan look even more odd. She flew in only her blue havah—which she’d pinned to keep it from fluttering too much—with white leggings underneath. Stormlight surged from her skin, keeping her warm, sustaining her.

Her hair streamed behind her, a stark auburn red. She flew with arms outstretched and eyes closed, grinning. Kaladin had to keep adjusting her speed to keep her in line with the others, as she couldn’t resist reaching out to feel the wind between her freehand fingers, and waving to windspren as they passed.

How does she smile like that? Kaladin wondered. During their trip through the chasms together, he’d learned her secrets. The wounds she hid. And yet … she could simply ignore them somehow. Kaladin had never been able to do that. Even when he wasn’t feeling particularly grim, he felt weighed down by his duties or the people he needed to care for.

Her heedless joy made him want to show her how to really fly. She didn’t have Lashings, but could still use her body to sculpt the wind and dance in the air.…

He snapped himself back to the moment, banishing silly daydreams. Kaladin tucked his arms against himself, making a narrower profile for the wind. This made him move up the line of people, so he could renew their Stormlight each in turn. He didn’t use Stormlight to maneuver so much as the wind itself.

Skar and Drehy handled their own flight about twenty feet below the group, watching in case anyone dropped for some reason. Lashings renewed, Kaladin maneuvered himself into line between Shallan and King Elhokar. The king stared forward through the mask, as if oblivious to the wondrous storm beneath. Shallan drifted onto her back, beaming as she looked up at the sky, the hem of her pinned skirts rippling and fluttering.

Adolin was a different story. He glanced at Kaladin, then closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. At least he’d stopped flailing each time they hit a change in the winds.

They didn’t speak, as their voices would only be lost to the rushing wind. Kaladin’s instincts said he could probably lessen the force of the wind while flying—he’d done so before—but there were some abilities he had trouble deliberately reproducing.

Eventually, a line of light flitted from the storm below. It soon looped into a ribbon of light and spun up toward him. “We just passed the Windrunner River,” Syl said. The words were more of a mental impression than actual sound.

“We’re near Kholinar then,” he said.

“She clearly likes the sky,” Syl said, glancing at Shallan. “A natural. She almost seems like a spren, and I consider that high praise.”

He sighed, and did not look at Shallan.

“Come on…” Syl said, zipping around to his other side. “You need to be with people to be happy, Kaladin. I know you do.”

“I have my bridge crew,” he muttered, voice lost to the winds—but Syl would be able to hear, as he could hear her.

“Not the same. And you know it.”

“She brought her handmaid on a scouting mission. She couldn’t go a week without someone to do her hair. You think I’d be interested in that?”

“Think?” Syl said. She took the shape of a tiny young woman in a girlish dress, flying through the sky before him. “I know. Don’t think I don’t spot you stealing looks.” She smirked.

“Time to stop so we don’t overshoot Kholinar,” Kaladin said. “Go tell Skar and Drehy.”

Kaladin took his charges one at a time, canceling their Lashing forward, replacing it with a half Lashing upward. There was a strange effect to the Lashings that frustrated Sigzil’s scientific attempts at terminology. All of his numbers had assumed that once Lashed, a person would be under the influence of both the ground and the Lashing.

That wasn’t the case. Once you used a Basic Lashing on someone, their body completely forgot about the pull of the ground, and they fell in the direction you indicated. Partial Lashings worked by making part of the person’s weight forget the ground, though the rest continued to be pulled downward. So a half Lashing upward made a person weightless.

Kaladin situated the groups so he could speak to the king, Adolin, and Shallan. His bridgemen and Shallan’s attendants hovered a short distance off. Even Sigzil’s new explanations had trouble accounting for everything that Kaladin did. He’d somehow made a kind of … channel around the group, like in a river. A current, sweeping them along, keeping them closer together.

“It really is beautiful,” Shallan said, surveying the storm, which blanketed everything but the tips of some very distant peaks to their left. Probably the Sunmaker Mountains. “Like mixing paint—if dark paint could somehow spawn new colors and light within its swirls.”

“So long as I can continue to watch it from a safe distance,” Adolin said. He held Kaladin’s arm to keep from drifting away.

“We’re close to Kholinar,” Kaladin said. “Which is good, as we’re getting near the back edge of the storm, and I’ll soon lose access to its Stormlight.”

“What I feel like I’m about to lose,” Shallan said, looking down, “is my shoes.”

“Shoes?” Adolin said. “I lost my lunch back there.”

“I can’t help imagining something sliding off and dropping into it,” Shallan whispered. “Vanishing. Gone forever.” She glanced at Kaladin. “No wisecracks about missing boots?”

“I couldn’t think of anything funny.” He hesitated. “Though that hasn’t ever stopped you.”

Shallan grinned. “Have you ever considered, bridgeman, that bad art does more for the world than good art? Artists spend more of their lives making bad practice pieces than they do masterworks, particularly at the start. And even when an artist becomes a master, some pieces don’t work out. Still others are somehow just wrong until the last stroke.

“You learn more from bad art than you do from good art, as your mistakes are more important than your successes. Plus, good art usually evokes the same emotions in people—most good art is the same kind of good. But bad pieces can each be bad in their own unique way. So I’m glad we have bad art, and I’m sure the Almighty agrees.”

“All this,” Adolin said, amused, “to justify your sense of humor, Shallan?”

“My sense of humor? No, I’m merely trying to justify the creation of Captain Kaladin.”

Ignoring her, Kaladin squinted eastward. The clouds behind them were lightening from deep, brooding black and grey to a more general blandness, the color of Rock’s morning mush. The storm was near to ending; what arrived with a fanfare ended with an extended sigh, gales giving way to peaceful rain.

“Drehy, Skar,” Kaladin called. “Keep everyone in the air. I’m going to go scout below.”

The two gave him salutes, and Kaladin dropped through the clouds, which—from within—looked like dirty fog. Kaladin came out crusted in frost, and rain began pelting him, but it was growing weak. Thunder rumbled softly above.

Enough light seeped through the clouds for him to survey the landscape. Indeed, the city was close, and it was majestic, but he forced himself to look for enemies before marveling. He noted a broad plain before the city—a killing field kept free of trees or large boulders, so that neither could offer cover to an invading army. That was empty, which wasn’t unexpected.

The question was who held the city—Voidbringers or humans? He cautiously descended. The place glowed with a sprinkling of Stormlight from cages left out in the storm to recharge the gems. And … yes, from guard posts flew Alethi flags, raised now that the worst of the storm had passed.

Kaladin let out a relieved sigh. Kholinar had not fallen, though if their reports were right, all surrounding towns were occupied. In fact, looking closely, he could see that the enemy had begun building stormshelters on the killing field: bunkers from which they could prevent resupply to Kholinar. They were mere foundations of brick and mortar for now. During the times between storms, they were likely guarded—and built up—by large enemy forces.

He finally let himself stare at Kholinar. He knew it was coming, inevitable as a budding yawn; he couldn’t keep it down forever. First assess the area for danger, get the lay of the land.

Then gawk.

Storms, that city was beautiful.

He’d flown high above it once in a half dream where he’d seen the Stormfather. That hadn’t affected him the way it did to float here, looking over the vast metropolis. He’d seen proper cities now—the warcamps together were probably larger than Kholinar—so it wasn’t the size that amazed him, really, but the variety. He was accustomed to functional bunkers, not stone buildings of many shapes and roofing styles.

Kholinar’s defining feature, of course, was the windblades: curious rock formations that rose from the stone like the fins of some giant creature mostly hidden beneath the surface. The large curves of stone glittered with red, white, and orange strata, their hues deepened by the rain. He hadn’t realized that the city walls were partially constructed on the tops of the outer windblades. There, the lower sections of the walls literally sprouted from the ground, while men had built fortifications atop them, evening out the heights and filling spaces between the curves.

Towering over the northern side of the city was the palace complex, which rose high and confident, as if in defiance of the storms. The palace was like a little city unto itself, with bright columns, rotundas, and turrets.

And something was very, very wrong with it.

A cloud hung over the palace, a darkness that—at first glance—seemed like nothing more than a trick of the light. Yet the feeling of wrongness persisted, and seemed strongest around a portion at the east of the palace complex. This flat, raised plaza was filled with small buildings. The palace monastery.

The Oathgate platform.

Kaladin narrowed his eyes, then Lashed himself back upward, passing into the clouds. He’d probably let himself gape for too long—he didn’t want to start talk of a glowing person in the sky.

Still … that city. In Kaladin’s heart still lived a country boy who had dreamed of seeing the world.

“Did you see that darkness around the palace?” Kaladin asked Syl.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Something’s very wrong.”

Kaladin emerged from the clouds and found that his crew had drifted off to the west in the breeze. He Lashed himself toward them, and noticed—for the first time—that his Stormlight was no longer being renewed by the storm.

Drehy and Skar looked visibly relieved when he arrived. “Kal—” Skar started.

“I know. We don’t have much time left. Your Majesty, the city is right below us—and our forces still control the walls. The Parshendi are building storm bunkers and besieging the area, though the bulk of their army probably retreated to nearby towns in anticipation of the storm.”

“The city stands!” Elhokar said. “Excellent! Captain, take us down.”

“Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “If we drop from the sky like this, the enemy scouts will see us entering.”

“So?” Elhokar said. “The need for subterfuge was predicated on a fear that we might have to sneak in. If our forces still hold the city, we can march up to the palace, assert command, and activate the Oathgate.”

Kaladin hesitated. “Your Majesty, something is … wrong with the palace. It looks dark, and Syl saw it too. I advise caution.”

“My wife and child are inside,” Elhokar said. “They might be in danger.”

You didn’t seem to worry much about them during six years away at war, Kaladin thought.

“Let’s go down anyway,” the king said. “We want to get to the Oathgate as soon as possible…” He trailed off, looking from Kaladin to Shallan, to Adolin. “Don’t we?”

“I advise caution,” Kaladin repeated.

“The bridgeman isn’t the jumpy type, Your Majesty,” Adolin said. “We don’t know what’s going on in the city, or what happened since the reports of chaos and a revolt. Caution sounds good to me.”

“Very well,” Elhokar said. “This is why I brought the Lightweaver. What do you recommend, Brightness?”

“Let’s land outside the city,” Shallan said. “Far enough away that the glow of Stormlight doesn’t give us away. We can use illusions to sneak in and find out what is going on without revealing ourselves.”

“Very well,” Elhokar said, nodding curtly. “Do as she suggests, Captain.”

Map of Kholinar

61. Nightmare Made Manifest

The enemy army was letting refugees approach the city.

At first, this surprised Kaladin. Wasn’t the point of a siege to prevent people from getting in? And yet, a constant stream of people was allowed to approach Kholinar. The gates stood closed against an army invasion, but the side doors—which were still large—were wide open.

Kaladin handed the spyglass to Adolin. They’d landed in an inconspicuous location, then hiked back to the city on foot—but it had been dark by the time they’d arrived. They’d decided to spend the night outside the city, hidden by one of Shallan’s illusions. Impressively, her Lightweaving had lasted all night on very little Stormlight.

Now that morning had arrived, they were surveying the city, which was maybe a mile away. From the outside, their hideout would seem like merely another knob of stone ground. Shallan couldn’t make it transparent from only one side, so they had to see out using a slit that—if someone walked close by—would be visible.

The illusion felt like a cave—except for the fact that wind and rain went right through it. The king and Shallan had grumbled all morning, complaining of a damp, cold night. Kaladin and his men had slept like stones. There were advantages to having lived through Bridge Four.

“They let refugees in so they can drain the city’s resources,” Adolin said, watching through the spyglass. “A solid tactic.”

“Brightness Shallan,” Elhokar said, accepting the spyglass from Adolin, “you can give us each illusions, right? We can pretend to be refugees and enter the city easily.”

Shallan nodded absently. She sat sketching near a shaft of light pouring through a small hole in the ceiling.

Adolin turned his spyglass toward the palace, the top of which surmounted the city in the distance. The day was perfectly sunny, bright, and crisp, with only a hint of moisture in the air from the highstorm the day before. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

But somehow, the palace was still in shadow.

“What could it be?” Adolin said, lowering his spyglass.

“One of them,” Shallan whispered. “The Unmade.”

Kaladin looked back at her. She’d sketched the palace, but it was twisted, with odd angles and distorted walls.

Elhokar studied the palace. “You were right to recommend caution, Windrunner. My instinct is still to rush in. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I must be prudent and careful.”

They gave Shallan time to finish sketches—she claimed to need them for complex illusions. Eventually she stood, flipping pages in her sketchpad. “All right. Most of us won’t need disguises, as nobody will recognize me or my attendants. Same goes for Kaladin’s men, I assume.”

“If someone does recognize me,” Skar said, “it won’t cause any problems. Nobody here knows what happened to me at the Shattered Plains.” Drehy nodded.

“All right,” Shallan said, turning to Kaladin and Adolin. “You two will get new faces and clothing, making you into old men.”

“I don’t need a disguise,” Kaladin said. “I—”

“You spent time with those parshmen earlier in the month,” Shallan said. “Best to be safe. Besides, you scowl at everyone like an old man anyway. You’ll be a great fit.”

Kaladin glowered at her.

“Perfect! Keep it up.” Shallan stepped over and breathed out, and Stormlight wreathed him. He felt he should be able to take it in, use it—but it resisted him. It was a strange sensation, as if he’d found a glowing coal that gave off no heat.

The Stormlight vanished and he held up a hand, which now appeared wizened. His uniform coat had been changed to a homespun brown jacket. He touched his face, but didn’t feel anything different.

Adolin pointed at him. “Shallan, that is positively wretched. I’m impressed.”

“What?” Kaladin looked at his men. Drehy winced.

Shallan wrapped Adolin in Light. He resolved into a sturdy, handsome man in his sixties, with dark brown skin, white hair, and a lean figure. His clothing was no longer ornate, but in good repair. He looked like the kind of old rogue you’d find in a pub, with handy tales about the brilliant things he’d done in his youth. The kind of man that made women think they preferred older men, when in reality they just preferred him.

“Oh, now that’s unfair,” Kaladin said.

“If I stretch a lie too far, people are more likely to be suspicious,” Shallan said lightly, then stepped over to the king. “Your Majesty, you’re going to be a woman.”

“Fine,” Elhokar said.

Kaladin started. He’d have expected an objection. Judging by the way that Shallan seemed to stifle a quip, she’d been expecting one too.

“You see,” she said instead, “I don’t think you can keep from carrying yourself like a king, so I figure that if you look like a highborn lighteyed woman, it’s less likely that you’ll be memorable to the guards who—”

“I said it was fine, Lightweaver,” Elhokar said. “We mustn’t waste time. My city and nation are in peril.”

Shallan breathed out again, and the king was transfigured into a tall, stately Alethi woman with features reminiscent of Jasnah’s. Kaladin nodded appreciatively. Shallan was right; there was something about the way Elhokar held himself that bespoke nobility. This was an excellent way to deflect people who might wonder who he was.

As they gathered their packs, Syl zipped into the enclosure. She took the shape of a young woman and flitted up to Kaladin, then stepped back in the air—aghast.

“Oh!” she said. “Wow!”

Kaladin glared at Shallan. “What did you do to me?”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” she said. “This will only highlight your excellent personality.”

Don’t let her get to you, Kaladin thought. She wants to get to you. He hefted his pack. It didn’t matter what he looked like; it was only an illusion.

But what had she done?

He led the way out of their enclosure, and they fell into a line. The rock illusion melted away behind them. Kaladin’s men had brought generic blue uniforms with no insignias. They could have belonged to any minor house guard within the Kholin princedom. Shallan’s two had on generic brown uniforms, and with Elhokar wearing the dress of a lighteyed woman, they actually looked like a real refugee group. Elhokar would be seen as a brightlady who had fled—without even a palanquin or carriage—before the enemy’s advance. She’d brought a few guards, some servants, and Shallan as her young ward. And Kaladin was her … what?

Storms. “Syl,” he growled, “could I summon you not as a sword, but as a flat, shiny piece of metal?”

“A mirror?” she asked, flying along beside him. “Hmmm.…”

“Not sure if it’s possible?”

“Not sure if it’s dignified.”

“Dignified? Since when have you cared about dignity?”

“I’m not to be toyed with. I’m a majestic weapon to be used only in majestic ways.” She hummed to herself and flitted away. Before he could call her back to complain, Elhokar caught up to him.

“Slow down, Captain,” the king said. Even his voice had changed to sound womanly. “You’ll outpace us.”

Reluctantly, Kaladin slowed. Elhokar didn’t show what he thought of Kaladin’s face; the king kept his eyes forward. He never did think much about other people, so that was normal.

“They call it the Windrunner, you know,” the king said softly. It took Kaladin a moment to realize that Elhokar was referring to the river that ran past Kholinar. Their path took them across it on a wide stone bridge. “The Alethi lighteyes rule because of you. Your order was prominent here, in what was then Alethela.”

“I—”

“Our quest is vital,” Elhokar continued. “We can’t afford to let this city fall. We cannot afford mistakes.”

“I assure you, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said, “I don’t intend to make mistakes.”

Elhokar glanced at him, and for a moment Kaladin felt he could see the real king. Not because the illusion was failing, but because of the way Elhokar’s lips tightened, his brow creased, and his gaze became so intense.

“I wasn’t speaking of you, Captain,” the king said quietly. “I was referring to my own limitations. When I fail this city, I want to make sure you are there to protect it.”

Kaladin looked away, ashamed. Had he really just been thinking of how selfish this man was? “Your Majesty…”

“No,” Elhokar said firmly. “This is a time to be realistic. A king must do whatever he can for the good of his people, and my judgment has proven … deficient. Anything I have ‘accomplished’ in life has been handed to me by my father or my uncle. You are here, Captain, to succeed when I fail. Remember that. Open the Oathgate, see that my wife and child are ushered through it to safety, and return with an army to reinforce this city.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.”

“No,” Elhokar said. “You’ll do what I command. Be extraordinary, Captain. Nothing else will suffice.”

Storms. How was it that Elhokar could give a compliment and yet be insulting at the same time? Kaladin felt a weight at hearing words that reminded him of his days in Amaram’s army, back when people had first started talking about him, expecting things from him.

Those rumors had become a challenge, creating for everyone the notion of a man who was like Kaladin, but at the same time greater than he could ever be. He’d used that fictional man, relied upon him, to equip his team and to get soldiers transferred to his squad. Without it, he’d never have met Tarah. It was useful to have a reputation, so long as it didn’t crush you.

The king dropped back farther into the line. They crossed the killing field under the watchful eyes of bowmen atop the wall. It made Kaladin’s back itch, though they were Alethi soldiers. He tried to ignore it by focusing on studying the wall as they stepped into its shadow.

Those strata, he thought, remind me of the tunnels in Urithiru. Could there be some connection?

He glanced over his shoulder as Adolin came up to him. The disguised prince winced as he looked at Kaladin.

“Hey,” Adolin said. “Um … wow. That’s really distracting.”

Storming woman. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Adolin said. “We’ll want a place inside the city to hole up, right? We can’t follow either of our original plans—we can’t simply stride up to the palace, but we don’t want to assault it either. Not until we’ve done a little scouting.”

Kaladin nodded. He hated the prospect of spending too much time in Kholinar. None of the other bridgemen had gotten far enough to swear the Second Ideal, so Bridge Four would be unable to practice with their powers until he returned. At the same time, the shadowed palace was disquieting. They did need to spend a few days gathering intelligence.

“Agreed,” Kaladin said. “Do you have any ideas for where we can set up?”

“I’ve got just the place. Run by people I trust, and close enough to the palace to do some scouting, but far enough away not to get caught in … whatever is going on there. Hopefully.” He looked concerned.

“What was it like?” Kaladin asked. “The thing beneath the tower that you and Shallan fought?”

“Shallan has pictures. You should ask her.”

“I’ve seen them in the reports Dalinar’s scribes gave me,” Kaladin said. “What was it like?”

Adolin turned his blue eyes back to their path. The illusion was so real, it was hard to believe it was actually him—but he did walk the same way, with that inborn confidence only a lighteyes had.

“It was … wrong,” Adolin finally said. “Haunting. A nightmare made manifest.”

“Kind of like my face?” Kaladin asked.

Adolin glanced at him, then grinned. “Fortunately, Shallan covered it up for you with that illusion.”

Kaladin found himself smiling. The way Adolin said things like that made it clear he was joking—and not only at your expense. Adolin made you want to laugh with him.

They drew close to the entrance. Though dwarfed by the main city gates, the side doors were wide enough to admit a cart. Unfortunately, the entrance was blocked by soldiers, and a crowd was accumulating, angerspren boiling on the ground around them. The refugees shook their fists and shouted at being barred entrance.

They’d been letting people in earlier. What was happening? Kaladin glanced at Adolin, then gestured with his chin. “Check it out?”

“We’ll go have a look,” Adolin said, turning toward the others of their group. “Wait here.”

Skar and Drehy stopped, but Elhokar followed as Kaladin and Adolin continued forward—and so did Shallan. Her servants hesitated briefly, then trailed after her. Storms, the command structure in this expedition was going to be a nightmare.

Elhokar imperiously marched forward and barked at people to move out of his way. Reluctantly, they did—a woman with his bearing was not someone to cross. Kaladin exchanged a wearied glance with Adolin, then both fell in beside the king.

“I demand entry,” Elhokar said, reaching the front of the crowd—which had swelled to some fifty or sixty people, with more steadily arriving.

The small group of guards looked over Elhokar, and their captain spoke. “How many fighting men can you provide for the city defense?”

“None,” Elhokar snapped. “They are my personal guard.”

“Then, Brightness, you should march them personally on to the south and try another city.”

“Where?” Elhokar demanded, the sentiment echoed by many in the crowd. “There are monsters everywhere, Captain.”

“Word is that there are fewer to the south,” the soldier said, pointing. “Regardless, Kholinar is full to bursting. You won’t find sanctuary here. Trust me. Move on. The city—”

“Who is your superior?” Elhokar cut in.

“I serve Highmarshal Azure, of the Wall Guard.”

“Highmarshal Azure? I’ve never heard of such a man. Do these people look like they can walk farther? I command you to let us enter the city.”

“I’m under orders to only let a set number in each day,” the guard said with a sigh. Kaladin recognized that sense of exasperation; Elhokar could bring it out in the most patient of guards. “We’ve passed the limit. You’ll need to wait until tomorrow.”

People growled, and more angerspren appeared around them.

“It’s not that we’re callous,” the guard captain called. “Will you just listen? The city is low on food, and we’re running out of room in stormshelters. Every person we add strains our resources further! But the monsters are focused here; if you flee to the south, you can take refuge there, maybe even get to Jah Keved.”

“Unacceptable!” Elhokar said. “You’ve gotten these inane orders from that Azure fellow. Who commands him?”

“The highmarshal has no commander.”

“What?” Elhokar demanded. “What of Queen Aesudan?”

The guard just shook his head. “Look, are those two men yours?” He pointed at Drehy and Skar, still standing near the back of the crowd. “They look like good soldiers. If you assign them to the Wall Guard, I’ll give you immediate entry, and we’ll see that you get a grain ration.”

“Not that one though,” another guard said, nodding toward Kaladin. “He looks sick.”

“Impossible!” Elhokar demanded. “I need my guards with me at all times.”

“Brightness…” the captain said. Storms, but Kaladin empathized with the poor man.

Syl suddenly grew alert, zipping into the sky as a ribbon of light. Kaladin immediately stopped paying attention to Elhokar and the guards. He searched the sky until he saw figures flying toward the wall in a V formation. There were at least twenty Voidbringers, each trailing a plume of dark energy.

Above, soldiers began to scream. The urgent call of drums followed, and the guard captain cursed in response. He and his men charged in through the open doors, then ran toward the nearest stairs leading up to the wall walk.

“In!” Adolin said as other refugees surged forward. He grabbed the king and towed him inside.

Kaladin fought against the press, refusing to be pushed into the city. He instead craned his neck to look upward, watching the Voidbringers hit the wall. Kaladin’s angle at the base was terrible for making sense of the action directly above.

A few men got tossed off the wall farther along. Kaladin took a step toward them, but before he could do anything, they crashed to the ground with strikingly loud impacts. Storms! He was shoved farther toward the city by the crowd, and barely restrained himself from drawing in Stormlight.

Steady, he told himself. The point is to get in without being seen. You would ruin that by flying to the defense of the city?

But he was supposed to protect.

“Kaladin,” Adolin called, fighting back through the crowd to where Kaladin stood right outside. “Come on.”

“They’re dominating that wall, Adolin. We should go help.”

“Help how?” Adolin said. He leaned in, speaking softly. “Summon Shardblades and swing them wildly in the air, like a farmer chasing skyeels? This is merely a raid to test our defenses. It’s not a full-on assault.”

Kaladin drew in a breath, then let Adolin pull him into the city. “Two dozen of the Fused. They could take this city with ease.”

“Not alone,” Adolin said. “Everyone knows that Shardbearers can’t hold ground—it should be the same for Radiants and those Fused. You need soldiers to take a city. Let’s move.”

They went inside and met with the others, then moved away from the walls and gates. Kaladin tried to close his ears to the distant shouts of the soldiers. As Adolin had guessed, the raid ended as abruptly as it had begun, the Fused soaring away from the wall after only a few minutes of fighting. Kaladin sighed, watching them go, then steeled himself and followed with the rest as Adolin led them down a wide thoroughfare.

Kholinar was both more impressive and more depressing from the inside. They passed endless side streets packed with tall, three-story homes built like stone boxes. And storms, the guard at the wall had not been exaggerating. People crowded every street. Kholinar didn’t have many alleyways; the stone buildings were built right up against each other in long rows. But people sat in the gutters, clinging to blankets and meager possessions. Too many doors were closed; often on nice days like this, people in the warcamps would leave the thick stormdoors and shutters open to the breeze. Not here. They were locked up tightly, for fear of being overwhelmed by refugees.

Shallan’s soldiers pulled tight around her, hands carefully on their pockets. They seemed familiar with the underbelly of city life. Fortunately, she’d accepted Kaladin’s pointed suggestion and hadn’t brought Gaz.

Where are the patrols? Kaladin thought as they walked through curving streets, up and down slopes. With all these people clogging the streets, surely they needed as many men as possible keeping the peace.

He didn’t see anything until they passed out of the section of city nearest the gates and entered a more wealthy area. This part was dominated by larger homes, with grounds marked by iron fences anchored into the stone with hardened crem. Behind those were guards, but the streets were devoid of anything similar.

Kaladin felt the gaze of the refugees. The wondering. Was it worth robbing him? Did it matter? Did they have food? Fortunately, the spears Skar and Drehy carried—along with the cudgels held by Shallan’s two men—seemed enough to deter any would-be robbers.

Kaladin quickened his pace to catch up to Adolin at the front of their little group. “Is this safehouse of yours close? I don’t like the feeling on these streets.”

“It’s a way yet,” Adolin said. “But I agree. Storms, I should have brought a side sword. Who knew I’d be worried about summoning my Blade?”

“Why can’t Shardbearers hold a city?” Kaladin asked.

“Basic military theory,” Adolin said. “Shardbearers do a great job killing people—but what are they going to do against the population of an entire city? Murder everyone who disobeys? They’d get overwhelmed, Shards or not. Those flying Voidbringers will need to bring in the entire army to take the city. But first they’ll test the walls, maybe weaken the defenses.”

Kaladin nodded. He liked to think he knew a great deal about warfare, but the truth was, he didn’t have the training of a man like Adolin. He’d participated in wars, but he’d never run any.

The farther they got from the walls, the better things seemed to be in the city—fewer refugees, more sense of order. They passed a market that was actually open, and inside he finally spotted a policing force: a tight group of men wearing unfamiliar colors.

This area would have looked nice, under other circumstances. Ridges of shalebark along the street, manicured with a variety of colors: some like plates, others like knobby branches reaching upward. Cultivated trees—which rarely pulled in their leaves—sprouted in front of many of the buildings, gripping the ground with thick roots that melded into the stone.

Refugees huddled in family groups. Here, the buildings were built in large square layouts, with windows facing inward and courtyards at the centers. People crowded into these, turning them into improvised shelters. Fortunately, Kaladin saw no obvious starvation, so the city’s food stores hadn’t given out yet.

“Did you see that?” Shallan asked softly, joining him.

“What?” Kaladin asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Performers in that market over there, dressed in very odd clothing.” Shallan frowned, pointing down an intersecting street as they passed. “There’s another one.”

It was a man dressed all in white, with strips of cloth that streamed and fluttered as he moved. Head down, he stood on a street corner, leaping back and forth from one position to another. When he looked up and met Kaladin’s eyes, he was the first stranger that day who didn’t immediately look away.

Kaladin watched until a chull pulling a wagon of storm refuse blocked his view. Then, ahead of them, people started clearing the street.

“To the side,” Elhokar said. “I’m curious about what this could be.”

They joined the crowds pressed up against the buildings, Kaladin shoving his hands in his pack to protect the large number of spheres he had tucked away in a black purse there. Soon, a strange procession came marching down the center of the street. These men and women were also dressed like performers—their clothes augmented with brightly colored strips of red, blue, or green fabric. They walked past, calling out nonsense phrases. Words Kaladin knew, but which didn’t belong together.

“What in Damnation is happening in this city?” Adolin muttered.

“This isn’t normal?” Kaladin whispered.

“We have buskers and street performers, but nothing like this. Storms. What are they?”

“Spren,” Shallan whispered. “They’re imitating spren. Look, those are like flamespren, and the ones of white and blue with the flowing ribbons—windspren. Emotion spren too. There’s pain, that’s fear, anticipation…”

“So it’s a parade,” Kaladin said, frowning. “But nobody is having any fun.”

The heads of spectators bowed, and people murmured or … prayed? Nearby an Alethi refugee—wrapped in rags and holding a sniveling baby in her arms—leaned against a building. A burst of exhaustionspren appeared above her, like jets of dust rising in the air. Only these were bright red instead of the normal brown, and seemed distorted.

“This is wrong, wrong, wrong,” Syl said from Kaladin’s shoulder. “Oh … oh, that spren is from him, Kaladin.”

Shallan watched the rising not-exhaustionspren with widening eyes. She took Adolin by the arm. “Keep us moving,” she hissed.

He started pushing through the crowd toward a corner where they could cut away from the strange procession. Kaladin grabbed the king by the arm, while Drehy, Skar, and Shallan’s two guards instinctively formed up around them. The king let Kaladin pull him away, and a good thing too. Elhokar had been fishing in his pocket, perhaps for a sphere to give the exhausted woman. Storms! In the middle of the crowd!

“Not far now,” Adolin said once they had breathing room on the side street. “Follow me.”

He led them to a small archway, where the buildings had been built around a shared courtyard garden. Of course, refugees had taken shelter there, many of them huddled in blanket tents that were still wet from the storm the day before. Lifespren bobbed among the plants.

Adolin carefully wound his way through all the people to get to the door he wanted, and then knocked. It was the back door, facing the courtyard instead of the street. Was this a rich person’s winehouse, perhaps? It seemed more like a home though.

Adolin knocked again, looking worried. Kaladin stepped up beside him, then froze. On the door was a shiny steel plate with engraved numbers. In it, he could see his reflection.

“Almighty above,” Kaladin said, poking at the scars and bulges on his face, some with open sores. Fake teeth jutted from his mouth, and one eye was higher in his head than the other. His hair grew out in patches, and his nose was tiny. “What did you do to me, woman?”

“I’ve recently learned,” Shallan said, “that a good disguise can be memorable, so long as it makes you memorable for the wrong reason. You, Captain, have a way of sticking in people’s heads, and I worried you would do so no matter what face you wore. So I enveloped it with something even more memorable.”

“I look like some kind of hideous spren.”

“Hey!” Syl said.

The door finally opened, revealing a short, matronly Thaylen woman in an apron and vest. Behind her stood a burly man with a white beard, cut after the Horneater style.

“What?” she said. “Who are you?”

“Oh!” Adolin said. “Shallan, I’ll need…”

Shallan rubbed his face with a towel from her pack, as if to remove makeup—covering the transformation as his face became his own again. Adolin grinned at the woman, and her jaw dropped.

“Prince Adolin?” she said. “Hurry, hurry. Get in here. It’s not safe outside!”

She ushered them in and quickly shut the door. Kaladin blinked at the sphere-lit chamber, its walls lined with bolts of cloth and dummies with half-finished coats on them.

“What is this place?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, I figured we’d want someplace safe,” Adolin said. “We’d need to stay with someone I’d trust with my life, or more.” He looked at Kaladin, then gestured toward the woman. “So I brought us to my tailor.”

62. Research

Secrets.

This city was brimming with them. It was stuffed with them, so tightly they couldn’t help but ooze out.

The only thing for Shallan to do, then, was punch herself in the face.

That was harder than it seemed. She always flinched. Come on, she thought, making a fist. With eyes squeezed shut, she braced herself, then smacked her freehand into the side of her head.

It barely hurt; she simply wasn’t capable of hitting herself hard enough. Maybe she could get Adolin to do it for her. He was in the back workroom of the tailor’s shop. Shallan had excused herself to step into the front showroom, as she figured the others would react poorly to her trying to actively attract a painspren.

She could hear their voices as they interrogated the polite tailor. “It started with the riots, Your Majesty,” the woman said in response to a question from Elhokar. “Or maybe before, with the … Well, it’s complicated. Oh, I can’t believe that you’re here. I’ve had Passion for something to happen, true, but to finally … I mean…”

“Take a deep breath, Yokska,” Adolin said gently. Even his voice was adorable. “Once you’ve taken all this in, we can continue.”

Secrets, Shallan thought. Secrets caused all of this.

Shallan peeked into the other room. The king, Adolin, Yokska the tailor, and Kaladin sat inside, all wearing their own faces again. They’d sent Kaladin’s men—along with Red, Ishnah, and Vathah—off with the tailor’s housemaid to prepare the upper rooms and attic to accommodate guests.

Yokska and her husband would be sleeping on pallets in the back room here; naturally, Elhokar had been given their room. Right now, the small group had arranged a circle of wooden chairs under the heedless watch of tailor’s dummies wearing a variety of half-finished coats.

Similar finished coats were displayed around the showroom. They were made in bright colors—even brighter than the Alethi wore at the Shattered Plains—with gold or silver thread, shiny buttons, and elaborate embroidery on the large pockets. The coats didn’t close at the front except for a few buttons right below the collar, while the sides flared out, then split into tails at the back.

“It was the execution of the ardent, Brightlord,” Yokska said. “The queen had her hanged, and … Oh! It was so gruesome. Blessed Passion, Your Majesty. I don’t want to speak ill of your wife! She must not have realized—”

“Just tell us,” Elhokar said. “Do not fear reprisal. I must know what the city’s people think.”

Yokska trembled. She was a small, plump woman who wore her long Thaylen eyebrows curled in twin ringlets, and was probably very fashionable in that skirt and blouse. Shallan lingered in the doorway, curious as to what the tailor had to say.

“Well,” Yokska continued, “during the riots, the queen … the queen basically vanished. We’d get proclamations from her, now and then, but they often didn’t make much sense. It all went wrong at the ardent’s death. The city was already in an uproar.… She wrote such awful things, Your Majesty. About the state of the monarchy, and the queen’s faith and…”

“And Aesudan condemned her to death,” Elhokar said. Lit by only a few spheres at the center of their circle, his face was half shadowed. It was a most intriguing effect, and Shallan took a Memory for later sketching.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It was the dark spren, obviously, who gave the actual order,” Elhokar said. “The dark spren that is controlling the palace. My wife would never be so imprudent as to publicly execute an ardent during such parlous times.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Dark spren. In the palace.” Yokska sounded relieved to have a rationale for not blaming the queen.

Shallan considered, then noticed a pair of fabric scissors on a ledge nearby. She snatched them, then ducked back into the showroom. She pulled her skirt to the side, then stabbed herself in the leg with the scissors.

The sharp pain seared up her leg and through her body.

“Mmmm,” Pattern said. “Destruction. This … this is not normal for you, Shallan. Too far.”

She trembled at the pain. Blood welled from the wound, but she pressed her hand against it to limit its spread.

There! That had done it. Painspren appeared around her, as if crawling out of the ground—like little disembodied hands. They looked skinless, made of sinew. Normally they were bright orange, but these were a sickly green. And they were also wrong … instead of human hands, these seemed to be from some kind of monster—too distorted, with claws jutting from the sinew.

Shallan eagerly took a Memory, still holding her havah skirt up to keep it from the blood.

“Does that not hurt?” Pattern asked, from where he’d moved onto the wall.

“Of course it does,” Shallan said, her eyes watering. “That was the point.”

“Mmmm…” He buzzed, worried, but he needn’t have been, as Shallan had what she wanted. Satisfied, she took in a little Stormlight and healed up, then used some cloth from her satchel to wipe the blood from her leg. She rinsed her hands and the cloth in the washroom basin. She was surprised at the running water; she hadn’t thought Kholinar had such things.

She took out her drawing pad and returned to the back room’s doorway, where she leaned against the jamb, doing a quick sketch of the strange, twisted painspren. Jasnah would tell her to put down her sketchpad and go sit with the others—but Shallan often paid better attention with a sketchpad in her hands. People who didn’t draw never seemed to understand that.

“Tell us about the palace,” Kaladin said. “The … dark spren, as His Majesty put it.”

Yokska nodded. “Oh, yes, Brightlord.”

Shallan glanced up to catch Kaladin’s reaction at being called Brightlord, but he didn’t show one. His illusory disguise was gone—though Shallan had tucked that sketch away, for possible further use. He’d summoned his Blade earlier in the morning, and he now had eyes as blue as any she’d seen. They hadn’t faded yet.

“There was that unexpected highstorm,” Yokska continued. “And after that, the weather went insane. The rains started going in fits and starts. But oh! When that new storm came, the one with the red lightning, it left a gloom over the palace. So nasty! Dark times. I suppose … suppose those haven’t ended.”

“Where were the royal guards?” Elhokar said. “They should have augmented the Watch, restored order during the rioting!”

“The Palace Guard retreated into the palace, Your Majesty,” Yokska said. “And she ordered the City Watch to barricade into the barracks. They eventually moved to the palace on the queen’s orders. They … haven’t been seen since.”

Storms, Shallan thought, continuing her sketch.

“Oh, I guess I’m jumping about, but I forgot!” Yokska continued. “In the middle of the rioting, a proclamation came from the queen. Oh, Your Majesty. She wanted to execute the city’s parshmen! Well, we all thought she must be—I’m sorry—but we thought she must be mad. Poor things. What have they ever done? That’s what we thought. We didn’t know.

“Well, the queen posted criers all over the city, proclaiming the parshmen to be Voidbringers. And I must say, about that she was right. Yet it was still so strange. She didn’t even seem to notice that half the city was rioting!”

“The dark spren,” Elhokar said, making a fist. “It must be blamed, not Aesudan.”

“Were there reports of any strange murders?” Adolin asked. “Murders, or violence, that came in pairs—a man would die, and then a few days later someone else would be killed in the exact same way?”

“No, Brightlord. Nothing … nothing like that, though there were many who were killed.”

Shallan shook her head. It was a different Unmade here; another ancient spren of Odium. Religion and lore spoke of them vaguely at best, tending to simplistically conflate them into one evil entity. Navani and Jasnah had begun to research them over the last weeks, but they still didn’t know very much.

She finished her sketch of the painspren, then did one of the exhaustionspren they’d seen earlier. She’d managed to glimpse some hungerspren around a refugee on their way. Oddly, those didn’t look any different. Why?

Need more information, Shallan thought. More data. What was the most embarrassing thing she could think of?

“Well,” Elhokar said, “though we didn’t order the parshmen executed, only exiled, at least that order seems to have reached Aesudan. She must have been free enough from the control of the dark forces to heed our words via spanreed.”

Of course, he didn’t mention the logical problems. If the tailor was correct about the dark spren arriving during the Everstorm, then Aesudan had executed the ardent on her own—as that had happened before. Likewise, the order to exile the parshmen would also have come before the Everstorm. And who knew if an Unmade could even influence someone like the queen? The spren in Urithiru had mimicked people, not controlled them.

Yokska did seem to be a little scattered in her retelling of events, so maybe Elhokar could be forgiven for mixing up the timeline. Either way, Shallan needed something embarrassing. When I spilled wine the first time Father gave me some at a dinner party. No … no … something more …

“Oh!” Yokska said. “Your Majesty, you should know. The proclamation requiring the execution of the parshmen … well, a coalition of important lighteyes didn’t follow it. Then, after that terrible storm, the queen started giving other orders, so the lighteyes went to meet with her.”

“Let me guess,” Kaladin said. “They never came back from the palace.”

“No, Brightlord, they did not.”

How about when I woke and faced Jasnah, after I’d almost died, and she’d discovered that I’d betrayed her?

Surely remembering that event would be enough.

No?

Bother.

“So the parshmen,” Adolin said. “Did they get executed?”

“No,” Yokska continued. “Like I said, everyone was concerned with the riots—save for the servants posting the queen’s orders, I suppose. The Wall Guard eventually took action. They restored some measure of order in the city, then rounded up the parshmen and exiled them to the plain outside. And then…”

“The Everstorm came,” Shallan said, covertly undoing the button on her safehand sleeve.

Yokska seemed to shrink down in her seat. The others fell silent, which provided the perfect opportunity for Shallan. She took a deep breath, then strolled forward, holding her sketchpad as if distracted. She tripped herself over a roll of cloth on the floor, yelped, and tumbled into the center of the ring of chairs.

She ended up sprawled on the floor, skirts up about her waist—and she wasn’t even wearing the leggings today. Her safehand bulged out from between the sleeve buttons, poking into the open right in front of not just the king, but Kaladin and Adolin.

Perfectly, horribly, incredibly mortifying. She felt a deep blush come on, and shamespren dropped around her in a wave. Normally, they took the shape of falling red and white flower petals.

These were like pieces of broken glass.

The men, of course, were more distracted by the position she’d gotten herself into. She squawked, managed to take a Memory of the shamespren, and righted herself, blushing furiously and tucking her hand in her sleeve.

That, she thought, might be the craziest thing you’ve ever done. Which is saying a lot.

She grabbed her sketchbook and bustled away, passing Yokska’s white-bearded husband—Shallan still hadn’t heard him speak a word—standing in the doorway with a tray of wine and tea. Shallan grabbed the darkest cup of wine and downed it in a single gulp, feeling the stares of the men on her back.

“Shallan?” Adolin piped up. “Um…”

“I’mfinethatwasanexperiment,” she said, ducking into the showroom and throwing herself into a seat placed there for customers. Storms, that was humiliating.

She could still see partway into the other room. Yokska’s husband walked with his silver tray to the group. He stopped by Yokska—though serving the king first would have been the correct protocol—and rested a hand on her shoulder. She put her own on his.

Shallan flipped open her sketchpad, and was pleased to see more shamespren dropping around her. Still glass. She started a drawing, burying herself in it to keep from thinking about what she’d just done.

“So…” Elhokar said in the next room. “We were talking about the Wall Guard. They obeyed the queen’s orders?”

“Well, that was around the time that the highmarshal appeared. I’ve never seen him either. He doesn’t come down from the wall much. He restored order, so that’s good, but the Wall Guard doesn’t have the numbers to police the city and watch the wall—so they’ve taken to watching the wall and mostly leaving us to just … survive in here.”

“Who rules now?” Kaladin asked.

“Nobody,” Yokska said. “Various highlords … well, they basically seized sections of the city. Some argued that the monarchy had fallen, that the king—I beg pardon, Your Majesty—had abandoned them. But the real power in the city is the Cult of Moments.”

Shallan looked up from her drawing.

“Those people we saw on the street?” Adolin asked. “Dressed like spren.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Yokska said. “I don’t … I don’t know what to tell you. Spren look strange sometimes in the city, and people think it has to do with the queen, the weird storm, the parshmen … They’re scared. Some have started claiming they can see a new world coming, a truly strange new world. One ruled by spren.

“The Vorin church has declared the Cult of Moments a heresy, but so many of the ardents were in the palace when it grew dark. Most of those remaining took refuge with one of the highlords who claimed small sections of Kholinar. Those are increasingly isolated, ruling their districts on their own. And then … and then there are the fabrials.…”

Fabrials. Shallan scrambled to her feet and stuck her head into the next room. “What about the fabrials?”

“If you use a fabrial,” Yokska said, “of any sort—from spanreed, to warmer, to painrial—you’ll draw them. Screaming yellow spren that ride the wind like streaks of terrible light. They shout and swirl about you. That then usually brings the creatures from the sky, the ones with the loose clothing and long spears. They seize the fabrial, and sometimes kill the one trying to use it.”

Storms … Shallan thought.

“Have you seen this?” Kaladin asked. “What did the spren look like? You heard them speak?”

Shallan glanced at Yokska, who had sunk down farther in her seat. “I think … maybe we should give the good tailor a break,” Shallan noted. “We’ve shown up on her doorstep out of nowhere, stolen her bedroom, and are now interrogating her. I’m sure the world won’t fall apart if we let her have a few minutes to drink her tea and recover.”

The woman looked at Shallan with an expression of pure gratitude.

“Storms!” Adolin said, leaping to his feet. “Of course you’re right, Shallan. Yokska, forgive us, and thank you so much for—”

“No need for thanks, Your Highness,” she said. “Oh, I did have Passion that help would come. And here it is! But if it pleases the king, a little rest … Yes, a little rest would be much appreciated.”

Kaladin grunted and nodded, and Elhokar waved a hand in a way that wasn’t quite dismissive. More just … self-absorbed. The three men left Yokska to rest and joined Shallan in the showroom, where light from the setting sun streamed between the drapes on the front windows. Those would normally be open to show off the tailor’s creations, but no doubt they’d lately spent most of their time closed.

The four gathered together to digest what they’d discovered. “Well?” Elhokar asked, speaking—for once—in a soft, thoughtful tone.

“I want to know what’s going on with the Wall Guard,” Kaladin said. “Their leader … none of you have heard of him?”

“Highmarshal Azure?” Adolin asked. “No. But I’ve been away for years. There are bound to be many officers in the city who were promoted while the rest of us were at war.”

“Azure might be the one feeding the city,” Kaladin said. “Someone is providing grain. This place would have eaten itself to starvation without some source of food.”

“At least we’ve learned something,” Shallan said. “We know why the spanreeds cut off.”

“The Voidbringers are trying to isolate the city,” Elhokar said. “They locked down the palace to prevent anyone from using the Oathgate, then cut off communication via spanreeds. They’re stalling until they can gather a large enough army.”

Shallan shivered. She held up her sketchpad, showing them the drawings she’d done. “Something is wrong with the city’s spren.”

The men nodded as they saw her drawings, though only Kaladin seemed to catch what she’d been doing. He looked from the drawing of the shamespren to her hand, then raised an eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. Well, it worked, didn’t it?

“Prudence,” the king said softly. “We mustn’t simply rush in and fall to whatever darkness seized the palace, but we also can’t afford to be inactive.”

He stood up straighter. Shallan had grown so accustomed to seeing Elhokar as an afterthought—a fault of the way Dalinar, increasingly, had been treating him. But there was an earnest determination to him, and yes, even a regal bearing.

Yes, she thought, taking another Memory of Elhokar. Yes, you are king. And you can live up to your father’s legacy.

“We must have a plan,” Elhokar said. “I would gladly hear your wisdom on this matter, Windrunner. How should we approach this?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure we should. Your Majesty, it might be best to catch the next highstorm, return to the tower, and report back to Dalinar. He can’t reach us with his visions here, and one of the Unmade could very well be beyond our mission’s parameters.”

“We don’t need Dalinar’s permission to act,” Elhokar said.

“I didn’t mean—”

“What is my uncle going to do, Captain? Dalinar won’t know any more than we will. We either do something about Kholinar ourselves now, or give the city, the Oathgate, and my family up to the enemy.”

Shallan agreed, and even Kaladin nodded slowly.

“We should at least scout the city and get a better feel for things,” Adolin noted.

“Yes,” Elhokar said. “A king needs accurate information to act correctly. Lightweaver, could you take on the look of a messenger woman?”

“Of course,” Shallan said. “Why?”

“Let us say I were to dictate a letter to Aesudan,” the king said, “then seal it with the royal seal. You could act the part of a messenger who had come personally from the Shattered Plains, traveling through great hardship to reach the queen to deliver my words. You could present yourself at the palace, and see how the guards there react.”

“That’s … not a bad idea,” Kaladin said. He sounded surprised.

“It could be dangerous,” Adolin said. “The guards might bring her into the palace itself.”

“I’m the only one here who has confronted one of the Unmade directly,” Shallan said. “I’m most likely to be able to spot their influence, and I have the resources to get out. I agree with His Majesty—eventually someone must go into the palace and see what is happening there. I promise to back off quickly if my gut says something is happening.”

“Mmmm…” Pattern said unexpectedly from her skirts. He generally preferred to remain silent when others were near. “I will watch and warn. We will be careful.”

“See if you can assess the state of the Oathgate,” the king said. “Its platform is part of the palace complex, but there are ways up other than through the palace itself. The best thing for the city might be to go in quietly, activate it, and bring in reinforcements, then decide how to rescue my family. But do reconnaissance only, for now.”

“And the rest of us just sit around tonight?” Kaladin complained.

“Waiting and trusting those whom you have empowered is the soul of kingship, Windrunner,” Elhokar said. “But I suspect that Brightness Shallan would not object to your company, and I’d rather have someone watching to help get her out, in an emergency.”

He wasn’t exactly correct; she would object to Kaladin’s presence. Veil wouldn’t want him looking over her shoulder, and Shallan wouldn’t want him asking questions about that persona.

However, she could find no reasonable objection. “I want to get a feel for the city,” she said, looking to Kaladin. “Have Yokska scribe the king’s letter, then meet me. Adolin, is there a good spot we could find each other?”

“The grand steps up to the palace complex, maybe?” he said. “They’re impossible to miss, and have a little square out in front of them.”

“Excellent,” Shallan said. “I’ll be wearing a black hat, Kaladin. You can wear your own face, I suppose, now that we’re past the Wall Guard. But that slave brand…” She reached up to create an illusion to make it vanish from his forehead.

He caught the hand. “No need. I’ll keep my hair down over it.”

“It peeks out,” she said.

“Then let it. In a city full of refugees, nobody is going to care.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t push. He was probably right. In that uniform, he’d probably just be taken for a slave someone bought, then put in their house guard. Even though the shash brand was odd.

The king went to prepare his letter, and Adolin and Kaladin stayed in the showroom to talk quietly about the Wall Guard. Shallan headed up the steps. Her own room was a smaller one on the second floor.

Inside were Red, and Vathah, and Ishnah the assistant spy, chatting quietly.

“How much did you eavesdrop on?” Shallan asked them.

“Not much,” Vathah said, thumbing over his shoulder. “We were too busy watching Ishnah ransack the tailor’s bedroom to see if she was hiding anything.”

“Tell me you didn’t make a mess.”

“No mess,” Ishnah promised. “And nothing to report either. The woman might actually be as boring as she seems. The boys did learn some good search procedures though.”

Shallan walked past the small guest bed and looked out the window at a daunting view down a city street. So many homes, so many people. Intimidating.

Fortunately, Veil wouldn’t see it that way. There was only one problem.

I can’t work with this team, she thought, without them eventually asking questions. This Kholinar mission would bring it to a head, as Veil hadn’t flown with them.

She’d been dreading this. And … kind of … anticipating it? “I need to tell them,” she whispered.

“Mmm,” Pattern said. “It’s good. Progress.”

Rather, she’d been backed into a corner. Still, it had to be done eventually. She walked to her pack and removed a white coat and a hat, which folded up on its side. “Some privacy, boys,” she said to Vathah and Red. “Veil needs to get dressed.”

They looked from the coat to Shallan, then back. Red slapped the side of his head and laughed. “You’re kidding. Well, I feel like an idiot.”

She’d expected Vathah to feel betrayed. Instead he nodded—as if this made perfect sense. He saluted her with one finger, then the two men retreated.

Ishnah lingered. Shallan had—after some debate—decided to bring the woman. Mraize had vetted her, and in the end, Veil needed the training.

“You don’t look surprised about this,” Shallan said as she started changing.

“I was suspicious when Veil … when you told me to go on this mission,” she said. “Then I saw the illusions, and guessed.” She paused. “I had it reversed. I thought Brightness Shallan was the persona. But the spy—that’s the false identity.”

“Wrong,” Shallan said. “They’re both equally false.” Once dressed, she flipped through her sketchbook and found a drawing of Lyn in her scouting uniform. Perfect. “Go tell Brightlord Kaladin I’m already out and exploring, and that he should meet me in about an hour.”

She climbed out the window and dropped one story to the ground, relying on her Stormlight to keep her legs from breaking. Then she struck off down the street.

63. Within the Mirror

Veil enjoyed being in a proper city again, even if it was half feral.

Most cities lived on the very edge of civilization. Everyone talked about towns and villages out in the middle of nowhere as if they were uncivilized, but she’d found people in those places pleasant, even-tempered, and comfortable with their quieter way of life.

Not in cities. Cities balanced on the edge of sustainability, always one step from starvation. When you pressed so many people together, their cultures, ideas, and stenches rubbed off on one another. The result wasn’t civilization. It was contained chaos, pressurized, bottled up so it couldn’t escape.

There was a tension to cities. You could breathe it, feel it in every step. Veil loved it.

Once a few streets from the tailor’s shop, she pulled down the brim of her hat and held up a page from her sketchbook as if consulting a map. This covered her as she breathed out Stormlight, transforming her features and hair to match those of Veil, instead of Shallan.

No spren came, screaming to warn of what she’d done. So Lightweaving was different from using fabrials. She’d been fairly certain it was safe, as they’d worn disguises into the city, but she’d wanted to be away from the tailor’s shop in case.

Veil strolled down the thoroughfare, long coat rippling around her calves. She decided immediately that she liked Kholinar. She liked how the city rolled across its hills, a lumpy blanket of buildings. She liked how it smelled of Horneater spices in one gust of wind, then of Alethi steamed crabs in the next. Admittedly, those probably weren’t proper crabs today, but cremlings.

That part she didn’t like. These poor people. Even in this more affluent area, she could barely walk a quarter block without having to weave around huddles of people. The midblock courtyards were clogged with what had probably been normal villagers not long ago, but who were now impoverished wretches.

There wasn’t much wheeled traffic on the streets. Some palanquins ringed by guards. No carriages. Life, however, did not stop for a war—or even for a second Aharietiam. There was water to draw, clothes to clean. Women’s work mostly, as she could see from the large groups of men standing around. With no one really in charge in the city, who would pay men to work forges? To clean streets or chip crem? Even worse, in a city this size, much of the menial labor would have been done by parshmen. Nobody would be eager to leap in to take their place.

The bridgeboy is right though, Veil thought, loitering at an intersection. The city is still being fed. A place like Kholinar could consume itself quickly, once the food or water ran out.

No, cities were not civilized places. No more than a whitespine was domesticated just because it had a collar around its neck.

A small group of cultists dressed as rotspren limped down the street, the wet red paint on their clothing evocative of blood. Shallan considered these people extreme and alarming, probably crazy, but Veil wasn’t convinced. They were too theatrical—and there were too many of them—for all to be truly deranged. This was a fad. A way of dealing with unexpected events and giving some shape to lives that had been turned upside down.

That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. A group of people all trying to impress one another was always more dangerous than the lone psychopath. So she gave the cultists a wide berth.

Over the next hour, Veil surveyed the city while wending her way in the general direction of the palace. The area with the tailor’s shop was the most normal. It had a good functioning market, which she intended to investigate further when not pressed for time. It had parks, and though these had been appropriated by the crowds, the people in them were lively. Family groups—even communities transplanted from outer villages—doing the best they could.

She passed bunkerlike mansions of the wealthy. Several had been ransacked: gates broken down, window shutters cracked, grounds draped with blankets or shanties. Some lighteyed families, it seemed, hadn’t maintained enough guards to withstand the riots.

Anytime Veil’s path took her closer to the city walls, she entered sections of the city that were the most cramped, and the most despondent. Refugees just sitting on the streets. Vacant eyes, ragged clothing. People without homes or community.

The closer she drew to the palace though, the emptier the city became. Even the unfortunates who populated the streets near the walls—where the Voidbringers were raiding—knew to stay away from this area.

That made the homes of the wealthy here in the palace district seem … out of place. In normal times, living close to the palace would have been a privilege, and every large compound here had private walls that sheltered delicate gardens and ostentatious windows. But now, Veil felt the wrongness of the area as a prickling sensation on her skin. The families living here must have felt it, but they stubbornly remained in their mansions.

She peeked through the iron gate of one such mansion, and found soldiers on sentry duty: men in dark uniforms whose colors and heraldry she couldn’t discern. In fact, when one glanced at her, she couldn’t make out his eyes. It was probably just a trick of the light, but … storms. The soldiers had a wrongness about them; they moved oddly, rushing in bursts, like prowling predators. They didn’t stop to talk to each other as they passed.

She backed away and continued down the street. The palace was right ahead. Straight on in front of it were the wide steps where she’d meet Kaladin, but she had some time left. She slipped into a park nearby, the first she’d seen in the city that wasn’t clogged with refugees. Towering stumpweight trees—bred over time for height and spread of leaves—gave a shadowed canopy.

Away from potential prying eyes, she used Stormlight to overlay Veil’s features and clothing with those of Lyn. A stronger, more sturdy build, a blue scout’s uniform. The hat became a black rain hat, of the type often worn during the Weeping.

She left the park as Veil playing a part. She tried to keep this distinction sharp in her mind. She was still Veil. Merely in disguise.

Now, to see what she could find out about the Oathgate. The palace was built on a rise overlooking the city, and she slipped through the streets to its eastern side, where she indeed found the Oathgate platform. It was covered in buildings, and was as high as the palace—maybe twenty feet up. It connected to the main palace by a covered walkway that rested atop a small wall.

They built that walkway right over the ramp, she thought with displeasure. The only other paths up onto the platform were sets of steps cut into the rock, and those were guarded by people in spren costumes.

Veil watched from a safe distance. So the cult was involved in this somehow? Above on the platform, smoke trailed from a large fire, and Veil could hear sounds rising from that direction. Were those … screams?

The whole place was unnerving, and she shivered, then retreated. She found Kaladin leaning against the base of a statue in a square before the palace steps. Soulcast out of bronze, the statue depicted a figure in Shardplate rising as if from waves.

“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s me. Do you like the boots on this outfit?” She raised her foot.

“Do we have to keep bringing that up?”

“I was giving you a passcode, bridgeboy,” she said. “To prove I’m who I say I am.”

“Lyn’s face made that clear,” he said, handing her the king’s letter, inside a sealed envelope.

I like him, Veil thought. An … odd thought, in how much stronger that feeling was to Veil than it had been to Shallan. I like that brooding sense he has about him, those dangerous eyes.

Why did Shallan focus so much on Adolin? He was nice, but also bland. You couldn’t tease him without feeling bad, but Kaladin, he glared at you in the most satisfying of ways.

The part of her that was still Shallan, deep down, was bothered by this line of thinking. So instead, Veil turned her attention to the palace. It was a grand structure, but more like a fortress than she’d pictured. Very Alethi. The bottom floor was a massive rectangle, with the short side facing toward the storm. The upper levels were successively thinner, and a dome rose from the center of the building.

From up close, she couldn’t make out exactly where the sunlight stopped and the shadow began. Indeed, the air of darkness felt … different from how Urithiru had when the dark spren was there. She kept feeling that she wasn’t seeing it all. When she’d glance away and look back, she could swear that something was different. Had that planter moved, the one running along the grand entry steps? Or … had that door always been painted blue?

She took a Memory, then looked away and back, and took another Memory. She wasn’t certain what good it would do, as she’d had trouble drawing the palace earlier.

“Do you see them?” Kaladin whispered. “The soldiers, standing between the pillars?”

She hadn’t. The front of the palace—at the top of the long set of stairs—was set with pillars. Looking closer into the shadows, she saw men in there, gathered beneath the overhang supported by the columns. They stood like statues, their spears upright, never moving.

Anticipationspren rose around Veil, and she jumped. While two of the spren looked normal—like flat streamers—the others were wrong. They waved long, thin tendrils that looked like lashes to whip a servant.

She shared a glance with Kaladin, then took a Memory of the spren.

“Shall we?” Kaladin asked.

“I shall. You stay here.”

He glanced at her.

“If something goes wrong, I’d rather you be ready out here to come in and help. Best not to potentially get us both stuck in the grip of one of the Unmade. I’ll shout if I need you.”

“And if you can’t shout? Or if I can’t hear you?”

“I’ll send Pattern.”

Kaladin folded his arms, but nodded. “Fine. Just be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but he was thinking of Shallan. Veil wasn’t as foolhardy.

The climb up those steps seemed to take far too long. For a moment she could have sworn they stretched into the sky, toward the eternal void. And then she was atop them, standing before those pillars.

A group of guards approached her.

“I have a message from the king!” she said, holding it up. “To be delivered directly to Her Majesty. I’ve traveled all the way from the Shattered Plains!”

The guards didn’t break stride. One opened a door into the palace while the others formed up behind Veil, prodding her forward. She swallowed, sweat chilling her brow, and let them force her to that door. That maw …

She walked into a grand entryway, marked by marble and a brilliant sphere chandelier. No Unmade. No darkness waiting to consume her. She breathed out, though she could feel something. That phantom eeriness was indeed stronger here. The wrongness. She jumped when one of the soldiers put his hand on her shoulder.

A man in a captainlord’s knots left a small room beside the grand chamber. “What is this?”

“Messenger,” a soldier said. “From the Shattered Plains.” Another plucked the letter from her fingers and handed it toward the captainlord. She could see their eyes now, and they seemed ordinary—darkeyed grunts, lighteyed officer.

“Who was your commander there?” the captain asked her, looking over the letter, then squinting at the seal. “Well? I served on the Plains for a few years.”

“Captain Colot,” she said, naming the officer who had joined the Windrunners. He wasn’t Lyn’s actual commander, but he did have scouts in his team.

The captainlord nodded, then handed the letter to one of his men. “Take it to Queen Aesudan.”

“I was supposed to deliver it in person,” Veil said, though she itched to be out of this place. To flee madly, if she were being honest. She had to stay. Whatever she learned here would be of—

One of the soldiers ran her through.

It happened so quickly, she was left gaping at the sword blade protruding through her chest—wet with her blood. He yanked the weapon back out, and Veil collapsed with a groan. She reached for Stormlight, by instinct.

No … no, do as … as Jasnah did …

Pretend. Feign. She stared up at the men in horror, in betrayal, painspren rising around her. One soldier jogged off with the message, but the captain merely walked back toward his post. Not one of the rest said a word as she bled all over the floor, her vision fading …

She let her eyes close, then took in a short, sharp breath of Stormlight. Just a tiny amount, which she kept within, holding her breath. Enough to keep her alive, heal the wounds inside …

Pattern. Please don’t go. Don’t do anything. Don’t hum, don’t buzz. Quiet. Stay quiet.

One of the soldiers picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, then carried her through the palace. She dared cracking a single eye, and found the wide hallway here was lined with dozens upon dozens of soldiers. Just … standing there. They were alive; they’d cough, or shift position. Some leaned back against the wall, but they all kind of stayed in place. Human, but wrong.

The guard carrying her passed a floor-to-ceiling mirror rimmed in a fancy bronze frame. In it, she glimpsed the guard with Lyn thrown over his shoulder. And beyond that, deep within the mirror, something turned—the normal image fading—and looked toward Shallan with a sudden and surprised motion. It looked like a shadow of a person, only with white spots for eyes.

Veil quickly closed her peeking eye. Storms, what had that been?

Don’t shift. Stay perfectly still. Don’t even breathe. Stormlight allowed her to survive without air.

The guard carried her down some steps, then opened a door and walked down a few more. He dropped her none too gently onto the stone and tossed her hat on top of her, then turned and left, closing a door behind him.

Veil waited as long as she could stand before opening her eyes and finding herself in darkness. She took a breath, and nearly choked at the rotten, musty stench. Dreading and suspecting what she might find, she drew in Stormlight and made herself glow.

She’d been dropped beside a small line of corpses. There were seven of them, three male and four female, wearing fine clothing—but covered in rotspren, their flesh chewed at by cremlings.

Holding in a scream, she scrambled to her feet. Perhaps … perhaps these were some of those lighteyes who’d come to the palace to talk to the queen?

She snatched her hat and scrambled to the steps. This was the wine cellar, a stone vault cut right into the rock. At the door she finally heard Pattern, who had been talking, though his voice had seemed distant.

“Shallan? I felt what you told me. Don’t go. Shallan, are you well? Oh! The destruction. You destroy some things, but seeing others destroyed upsets you. Hmmmm.…” He seemed pleased to have figured it out.

She focused on his voice, something familiar. Not the memory of a sword protruding from her own chest, not the callous way she’d been dumped here and left to rot, not the line of corpses with exposed bones, haunted faces, chewed-out eyes …

Don’t think. Don’t see it.

She shoved it all away, and rested her forehead against the door. Then she carefully eased it open and found an empty stone hallway beyond, with more steps leading upward.

There were too many soldiers that way. She put on a new illusion, of a servant woman from her sketchbook. Maybe that would be less suspicious. It covered the blood, at least.

She didn’t head back upstairs, but instead took a separate path farther into the tunnels. This turned out to be the Kholin mausoleum, which was lined with another kind of corpse: old kings turned to statues. Their stone eyes chased her down empty tunnels until she found a door that, judging from the sunlight underneath, led out into the city.

“Pattern,” she whispered. “Check for guards outside.”

He hummed and slid under the door, then returned a moment later. “Mmm … There are two.”

“Go back, then along the wall slowly to the right,” she said, infusing him.

He did so, sliding under the door. A sound she’d created rose from him as he moved away, imitating the captainlord’s voice from above, calling for the guards. It wasn’t perfect, as she hadn’t sketched the man, but it seemed to work as she heard booted feet move off.

She slipped out, and found herself at the base of the rise that the palace sat upon, a cliff of some twenty feet above her. The guards were distracted, walking to her right, so Veil slipped onto a street nearby, then ran for a short time, thankful to finally have a chance to work off some of her energy.

She collapsed in the shadow of a hollow building, with the windows broken open and the door missing. Pattern scooted along the ground nearby, joining her. The guards didn’t seem to have noticed her.

“Go find Kaladin,” she said to Pattern. “Bring him here. Warn him that soldiers might be watching him from the palace, and they might come for him.”

“Mmmm.” Pattern slid away from her. She huddled against herself, back to a stone wall, her coat still covered in blood. After a nerve-racking wait, Kaladin stepped onto the street, then hurried up to her. “Storms!” he said, kneeling beside her. Pattern slipped off his coat, humming happily. “Shallan, what happened to you?”

“Well,” she said, “as a connoisseur of things that have killed me, I think a sword happened.”

“Shallan…”

“The evil force that rules the palace did not think highly of someone coming with a letter from the king.” She smiled at him. “You could say, um, it made that point quite clear.”

Smile. I need you to smile.

I need what happened to be all right. Something that can simply roll off me.

Please.

“Well…” Kaladin said. “I’m glad we … took a stab at this anyway.” He smiled.

It was all right. Just another day, another infiltration. He helped her to her feet, then looked to check on her wound, and she slapped his hand. The cut was not in an appropriate location.

“Sorry,” he said. “Surgeon’s instincts. Back to the hideout?”

“Yes, please,” she said. “I’d rather not be killed again today. It’s quite draining.…”

64. Binder of Gods

Dalinar reached into the dark stone shaft where he’d hidden the assassin’s Honorblade. It was still there; he felt the hilt under the lip of stone.

He expected to feel more upon touching it. Power? A tingling? This was a weapon of Heralds, a thing so ancient that common Shardblades were young by comparison. Yet, as he slipped it free and stood up, the only thing he felt was his own anger. This was the weapon of the assassin who had killed his brother. The weapon used to terrorize Roshar, murder the lords of Jah Keved and Azir.

It was shortsighted of him to see such an ancient weapon merely as the sword of the Assassin in White. He stepped out into the larger room next door, then regarded the sword in the light of the spheres he had placed on a stone slab there. Sinuous and elegant, this was the weapon of a king. Jezerezeh’Elin.

“There are some who assumed you were one of the Heralds,” Dalinar noted to the Stormfather, who rumbled in the back of his mind. “Jezerezeh, Herald of Kings, Father of Storms.”

Men say many foolish things, the Stormfather replied. Some name Kelek Stormfather, others Jezrien. I am neither of them.

“But Jezerezeh was a Windrunner.”

He was before Windrunners. He was Jezrien, a man whose powers bore no name. They were simply him. The Windrunners were named only after Ishar founded the orders.

“Ishi’Elin,” Dalinar said. “Herald of Luck.”

Or of mysteries, the Stormfather said, or of priests. Or of a dozen other things, as men dubbed him. He is now as mad as the rest. More, perhaps.

Dalinar lowered the Honorblade, looking eastward toward the Origin. Even through the stone walls, he knew that was where to find the Stormfather. “Do you know where they are?”

I have told you. I do not see all. Only glimpses in the storms.

“Do you know where they are?”

Only one, he said with a rumble. I … have seen Ishar. He curses me at night, even as he names himself a god. He seeks death. His own. Perhaps that of every man.

It clicked. “Stormfather!”

Yes?

“Oh. Uh, that was a curse.… Never mind. Tezim, the god-priest of Tukar? Is it him? Ishi, Herald of Luck, is the man who has been waging war against Emul?”

Yes.

“For what purpose?”

He is insane. Do not look for meaning in his actions.

“When … when were you thinking of informing me of this?”

When you asked. When else would I speak of it?

“When you thought of it!” Dalinar said. “You know things that are important, Stormfather!”

He just rumbled his reply.

Dalinar took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Spren did not think like men. Anger would not change what the Stormfather told him. But what would?

“Did you know about my powers?” Dalinar asked. “Did you know that I could heal the stone?”

I knew it once you did it, the Stormfather said. Yes, once you did it, I always knew.

“Do you know what else I can do?”

Of course. Once you discover it, I will know.

“But—”

Your powers will come when you are ready for them, not before, the Stormfather said. They cannot be hurried or forced.

But do not look toward the powers of others, even those who share your Surges. Their lot is not yours, and their powers are small, petty things. What you did in reknitting those statues was a mere trifle, a party trick.

Yours is the power Ishar once held. Before he was Herald of Luck, they called him Binder of Gods. He was the founder of the Oathpact. No Radiant is capable of more than you. Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls. Your Surges are the greatest of all, though they will be impotent if you seek to wield them for mere battle.

The words washed over Dalinar, seeming to press him backward with their force. When the Stormfather was done, Dalinar found himself out of breath, a headache coming on. He reflexively drew in Stormlight to heal it, and the small chamber dimmed. That stopped the pain, but it did nothing for his cold sweat.

“Are there others like me out there?” he finally asked.

Not right now, and there can ever be only three. One for each of us.

“Three?” Dalinar said. “Three spren who make Bondsmiths. You … and Cultivation are two?”

The Stormfather actually laughed. You would have a difficult time making her your spren. I should like to see you try it.

“Then who?”

My siblings need not concern you.

They seemed of compelling concern, but Dalinar had learned when to avoid pressing an issue. That would only cause the spren to withdraw.

Dalinar took the Honorblade in a firm grip, then collected his spheres, one of which had gone dun. “Have I ever asked how you renew these?” Dalinar held up the sphere, inspecting the ruby at the center. He’d seen these loose, and had always been surprised by how small they actually were. The glass made them look far larger.

Honor’s power, during a storm, is concentrated in one place, the Stormfather said. It pierces all three realms and brings Physical, Cognitive, and Spiritual together momentarily in one. The gemstones, exposed to the wonder of the Spiritual Realm, are lit by the infinite power there.

“Could you renew this sphere, now?”

I … do not know. He sounded intrigued. Hold it forth.

Dalinar did so, and felt something happen, a tugging on his insides, like the Stormfather straining against their bond. The sphere remained dun.

It is not possible, the Stormfather said. I am close to you, but the power is not—it still rides the storm.

That was far more than he usually got from the Stormfather. He hoped he could remember it exactly to repeat to Navani—of course, if the Stormfather was listening, he’d correct Dalinar’s mistakes. The Stormfather hated to be misquoted.

Dalinar stepped out into the hallway to meet Bridge Four. He held up the Honorblade—a powerful, world-changing artifact. But, like the Shardblades modeled after it, the weapon was useless if he left it hidden.

“This,” he said to the men of Bridge Four, “is the Honorblade your captain recovered.”

The twenty-odd men gathered closer, their curious faces reflecting in the metal.

“Anyone who holds this,” Dalinar said, “will immediately gain the powers of a Windrunner. Your captain’s absence is interrupting your training. Perhaps this, though only one can use it at a time, can mitigate that.”

They gaped at the weapon, so Dalinar held it out toward Kaladin’s first lieutenant—the bearded older bridgeman named Teft.

Teft reached out, then drew his hand back. “Leyten,” he barked. “You’re our storming armorer. You take the thing.”

“Me?” a stocky bridgeman said. “That’s not armor.”

“Close enough.”

“I…”

“Airsick lowlanders,” Rock the Horneater said, shoving forward and taking the weapon. “Your soup is cold. That is idiom for ‘You are all stupid.’ ” The Horneater hefted it, curious, and his eyes bled to a glassy blue.

“Rock?” Teft asked. “You? Holding a weapon?”

“I am not going to swing this thing,” Rock said, rolling his eyes. “I will keep him safe. This is all.”

“It’s a Shardblade,” Dalinar warned. “You’ve trained on those, correct?”

“We have, sir,” Teft said. “Doesn’t mean one of this lot won’t storming cut their own feet off. But … I suppose we can use this to heal it if they do. Sigzil, come up with a rotation so we can practice.”

Heal … Dalinar felt stupid. He’d missed it again. Anyone holding this Blade had the powers of a Radiant. Did that mean they could use Stormlight to heal themselves? If so, that might be a valuable extra use of the weapon.

“Don’t let anyone know you have this,” Dalinar told them. “I assume you can learn to dismiss and summon it like an ordinary Shardblade. See what you can discover, then report to me.”

“We’ll put it to good use, sir,” Teft promised.

“Good.” The clock fabrial on his forearm dinged, and Dalinar stifled a sigh. She’d learned to make it ding? “If you’ll all excuse me, I have to prepare for an appointment with an emperor a thousand miles away.”

A short time later, Dalinar stood on his balcony. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared out toward the Oathgate transport platforms.

“I did a great deal of business with the Azish when I was younger,” Fen said from behind him. “This might not work, but it is a much better plan than traditional Alethi strutting.”

“I don’t like him going alone,” Navani replied.

“By all reports,” Fen said dryly, “he got stabbed through the chest, lifted a stone roughly the weight of ten men, then started putting my city back together one rock at a time. I think he’ll be fine.”

“No amount of Stormlight will help if they simply imprison him,” Navani said. “We could be sending him to become a hostage.”

They were arguing for his benefit. He had to understand the risks. And he did. He walked over to give Navani a light kiss. He smiled at her, then turned and extended his hand toward Fen, who gave him a paper packet, like a large envelope.

“This is it, then?” he asked. “All three are in here?”

“They’re marked with appropriate glyphs,” Navani said. “And the spanreed is inside too. They’ve promised to speak in Alethi during the meeting—you won’t have an interpreter from our side, as you insist on going alone.”

“I do,” Dalinar said, starting toward the door. “I want to try Fen’s suggestion.”

Navani quickly rose and took his arm with her freehand.

“I assure you,” he said. “I will be safe.”

“No you won’t. But this is no different from a hundred other times you’ve ridden off to battle. Here.” She handed him a small box sheathed in cloth.

“Fabrial?”

“Lunch,” she said. “There’s no telling when those people will feed you.”

She’d wrapped it in a glyphward. Dalinar cocked his eyebrow at it, and she shrugged. Can’t hurt, right? that seemed to say. She took him in an embrace, held on an extra moment—more than another Alethi might—then stepped back. “We’ll be watching the spanreed. One hour with no communication, and we’re coming for you.”

He nodded. He couldn’t write to them of course, but he could flip the reed on and off to send signals, an old general’s trick for when you lacked a scribe.

A short time later, he strode out onto Urithiru’s western plateau. Crossing it on his way to the Oathgate, he passed men marching in formations, sergeants shouting orders, runners carrying messages. Two of his Shardbearers—Rust and Serugiadis, men who had the Plate only—practiced with massive Shardbows, launching thick arrows hundreds of yards toward a large straw target that Kaladin had placed for them on a nearby mountainside.

A significant number of the common soldiers sat around holding spheres, staring at them intently. Word had spread that Bridge Four was recruiting. He’d lately noticed numerous men in the hallways holding a sphere “for luck.” Dalinar even passed a group out here who were talking about swallowing spheres.

The Stormfather rumbled with displeasure. They go about this backward. Foolish men. They can’t draw in Light and become Radiant; they first must be approaching Radiance, and look for Light to fulfill the promise.

Dalinar barked at the men to get back to training, and to not swallow any spheres. They obeyed with a scrambling rush, shocked to find the Blackthorn looming over them. He shook his head, then continued. His path, unfortunately, took him through a mock battle. Two blocks of spearmen pressed against each other on the plateau, straining and grunting, training to hold their formations under stress. Though they carried blunt practice spears, this was mostly shield work.

Dalinar saw the warning signs of things going too far. Men were shouting with real acrimony, and angerspren were boiling at their feet. One of the lines wavered, and instead of pulling back, their opponents rammed their shields against them repeatedly.

Green and white on one side, black and maroon on the other. Sadeas and Aladar. Dalinar cursed and approached the men, shouting for them to pull back. Soon, his call was taken up by captains and commanders. The rear ranks of the two practice blocks pulled away—leaving the contestants at the center to devolve into a brawl.

Dalinar shouted, and Stormlight shimmered along the stones before him. Those who hadn’t gotten caught up in the fighting jumped back. The rest got stuck in the Stormlight, which glued them to the ground. This caused all but the most furious to stop their fighting.

He pulled the last few apart and pushed them down, sticking them by their seats to the stone next to their angerspren. The men thrashed, then saw him and froze, looking appropriately chagrined.

I remember being that wrapped up in battle, Dalinar thought. Is it the Thrill? He couldn’t remember feeling it for … for a long time. He would have the men questioned to determine whether any could feel it.

Dalinar let the Stormlight evaporate away like luminescent steam. Aladar’s officers withdrew their group in an orderly fashion, shouting for the men to start calisthenics. The soldiers from Sadeas’s army, however, spat at the ground and heaved themselves to their feet, retreating in sullen bunches, cursing and muttering.

They’re getting worse, Dalinar thought. Under Torol Sadeas, they’d been slovenly and sadistic, but still soldiers. Yes, they tended to brawl, but they’d been quick to obey in battle. So they’d been effective, just not exemplary.

The new Sadeas banner flew above these men. Meridas Sadeas—Amaram—had changed the glyphpair’s design, as was traditional: Sadeas’s squat tower had elongated, and the hammer had changed to an axe.

Despite his reputation for running a crisp army, it was obvious he was having trouble controlling these men. He’d never commanded a force this large—and perhaps the murder of their highprince had upset the men to the point that there was nothing Amaram could do.

Aladar hadn’t been able to provide anything of substance about Torol’s murder. The investigation was supposed to be ongoing … but there were no leads. The spren hadn’t done it, but they had no idea who had.

I’ll need to take action about those soldiers, Dalinar thought. They need something to tire them out, keep them from getting into fights.…

Perhaps he had just the thing. He considered that as he finally made his way up the ramp to the proper Oathgate platform, then crossed the empty field to the control building. Jasnah waited within, reading a book and making notes. “What took you?” she asked.

“Almost had a riot out on the parade ground,” he said. “Two training formations got interlocked and started bashing one another.”

“Sadeas?”

Dalinar nodded.

“We’ll have to do something about them.”

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe some hard labor—strictly supervised—in a ruined city might be just the thing.”

Jasnah smiled. “How convenient that we’re currently providing exactly such assistance to Queen Fen. Work Sadeas’s troops to exhaustion, assuming we can keep them under control there.”

“I’ll start with small batches, to be certain we’re not sending more trouble Fen’s direction,” Dalinar said. “Have you had any news from the king’s infiltration team at Kholinar?” As anticipated, the Stormfather was unable to reach anyone on the team to bring them into a vision—nor would Dalinar dare risk it—but they’d sent several spanreeds with Elhokar and Shallan.

“None. We’ll keep watch and tell you the moment we get any sort of response.”

Dalinar nodded, and shoved down his worry for Elhokar and his son. He had to trust that they’d eventually either accomplish their task, or find a way to report what was stopping them.

Jasnah summoned her Shardblade. Odd how natural it looked to see Jasnah with a sword. “You ready?”

“I am.”

The Reshi girl, Lift, had obtained permission from the Azish court to unlock the Oathgate on their side. The emperor was—at long last—willing to meet with Dalinar in the flesh.

Jasnah engaged the device, rotating the inner wall, the floor shimmering. Light flashed outside, and immediately, stuffy heat surged in through the doorways. Apparently a season of summer was well under way in Azir.

It smelled different here. Of exotic spices and more subtle things like unfamiliar woods.

“Good luck,” Jasnah said as he stepped out of the room. It flashed behind him as she returned to Urithiru, leaving him to meet the Azish imperial court on his own.

65. Verdict

Memories churned in Dalinar’s head as he walked down a long corridor outside the Oathgate control building in Azimir, which was covered by a magnificent bronze dome. The Grand Market, as it was called, was an enormous indoor shopping district. That would prove inconvenient when Dalinar needed to use the full Oathgate.

He couldn’t see any of the market currently; the control building—which had been treated as some kind of monument in the market—was now surrounded by a wooden set of walls, and a new corridor. Empty of people, it was lit by sphere lamps along the walls. Sapphires. Coincidence, or a gesture of respect to a Kholin visitor?

At the end, the hallway opened into a small room populated by a line of Azish soldiers. They wore plated mail, with colorful caps on their heads, greatshields, and very long-handled axes with small heads. The whole group jumped as Dalinar entered, and then shied back, weapons held threateningly.

Dalinar held his arms out to the sides, packet from Fen in one hand, food bundle in the other. “I am unarmed.”

They spoke quickly in Azish. He didn’t see the Prime or the little Radiant, though the people in patterned robes were viziers and scions—both were, essentially, Azish versions of ardents. Except here, the ardents were involved in the government far more than was proper.

A woman stepped forward, the many layers of her long, extravagant robes rustling as she walked. A matching hat completed the outfit. She was important, and perhaps planned to interpret for him herself.

Time for my first attack, Dalinar thought. He opened the packet that Fen had given him and removed four pieces of paper.

He presented them to the woman, and was pleased at the shock in her eyes. She hesitantly took them, then called to some of her companions. They joined her before Dalinar, which made the guards distinctly anxious. A few had drawn triangular kattari, a popular variety of short sword here in the west. He’d always wanted one.

The ardents withdrew behind the soldiers, speaking animatedly. The plan was to exchange pleasantries in this room, then for Dalinar to immediately return to Urithiru—whereupon they intended to lock the Oathgate from their side. He wanted more. He intended to get more. Some kind of alliance, or at least a meeting with the emperor.

One of the ardents started reading the papers to the others. The writing was in Azish, a funny language made of little markings that looked like cremling tracks. It lacked the elegant, sweeping verticals of the Alethi women’s script.

Dalinar closed his eyes, listening to the unfamiliar language. As in Thaylen City, he had a moment of feeling he could almost understand. Stretching, he felt that meaning was close to him.

“Would you help me understand?” he whispered to the Stormfather.

What makes you think I can?

“Don’t be coy,” Dalinar whispered. “I’ve spoken new languages in the visions. You can make me speak Azish.”

The Stormfather rumbled in discontent. That wasn’t me, he finally said. It was you.

“How do I use it?”

Try touching one of them. With Spiritual Adhesion, you can make a Connection.

Dalinar regarded the group of hostile guards, then sighed, waving and miming the act of dumping a drink into his mouth. The soldiers exchanged sharp words, then one of the youngest was pushed forward with a canteen. Dalinar nodded in thanks, then—as he took a drink from the water bottle—grabbed the young man by the wrist and held on.

Stormlight, the rumbling in his mind said.

Dalinar pressed Stormlight into the other man, and felt something—like a friendly sound coming from another room. All you had to do was get in. After a careful shove, the door opened, and sounds twisted and undulated in the air. Then, like music changing keys, they modulated from gibberish to sense.

“Captain!” cried the young guard that Dalinar held. “What do I do? He’s got me!”

Dalinar let go, and fortunately his understanding of the language persisted. “I’m sorry, soldier,” Dalinar said, handing back the canteen. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

The young soldier stepped back among his fellows. “The warlord speaks Azish?” He sounded as surprised as if he’d met a talking chull.

Dalinar clasped his hands behind his back and watched the ardents. You insist on thinking of them as ardents, he told himself, because they can read, both male and female. But he was no longer in Alethkar. Despite those bulky robes and large hats, the Azish women wore nothing on their safehands.

Sunmaker, Dalinar’s ancestor, had argued that the Azish had been in need of civilizing. He wondered if anyone had believed that argument even in those days, or if they’d all seen it for the rationalization it was.

The viziers and scions finished reading, then turned toward Dalinar, lowering the pages he’d given them. He had heeded Queen Fen’s plan, trusting that he couldn’t bully his way through Azir with a sword. Instead, he had brought a different kind of weapon.

An essay.

“Do you truly speak our language, Alethi?” the lead vizier called. She had a round face, dark brown eyes, and a cap covered in bright patterns. Her greying hair came out the side in a tight braid.

“I’ve had the opportunity to learn it recently,” Dalinar said. “You are Vizier Noura, I assume?”

“Did Queen Fen really write this?”

“With her own hand, Your Grace,” Dalinar said. “Feel free to contact Thaylen City to confirm.”

They huddled to consult again in quiet tones. The essay was a lengthy but compelling argument for the economic value of the Oathgates to the cities that hosted them. Fen argued that Dalinar’s desperation to forge an alliance made for the perfect opportunity to secure beneficial and lasting trade deals through Urithiru. Even if Azir had no plans to fully join the coalition, they should negotiate use of the Oathgates and send a delegation to the tower.

It spent a lot of words saying what was obvious, and was exactly the sort of thing Dalinar had no patience for. Which, hopefully, would make it perfect for the Azish. And if it wasn’t quite sufficient … well, Dalinar knew never to go into battle without fresh troops in reserve.

“Your Highness,” Noura said, “as impressed as we are that you cared to learn our language—and even considering the compelling argument presented here—we think it best if…”

She trailed off as Dalinar reached in his packet and withdrew a second sheaf of papers, six pages this time. He held them up before the group like a raised banner, then proffered them. A nearby guard jumped back, making his mail jingle.

The small chamber grew quiet. Finally, a guard accepted the papers and took them to the viziers and scions. A shorter man among them began reading quietly—this one was an extended treatise from Navani, talking about the wonders they’d discovered in Urithiru, formally inviting the Azish scholars to visit and share.

She made clever arguments about the importance of new fabrials and technology in fighting the Voidbringers. She included diagrams of the tents she’d made to help them fight during the Weeping, and explained her theories for floating towers. Then, with Dalinar’s permission, she offered a gift: detailed schematics that Taravangian had brought from Jah Keved, explaining the creation of so-called half-shards, fabrial shields that could withstand a few blows from Shardblades.

The enemy is united against us, went her essay’s final argument. They have the unique advantages of focus, harmony, and memories that extend far into the past. Resisting them will require our greatest minds, whether Alethi, Azish, Veden, or Thaylen. I freely give state secrets, for the days of hoarding knowledge are gone. Now, we either learn together or we fall individually.

The viziers finished, then they passed around the schematics, studying them for an extended time. When the group looked back at Dalinar, he could see that their attitude was changing. Remarkably, this was working.

Well, he didn’t know much about essays, but he had an instinct for combat. When your opponent was gasping for breath, you didn’t let him get back up. You rammed your sword right into his throat.

Dalinar reached into his packet and removed the last paper inside: a single sheet written on front and back. He held it up between his first two fingers. The Azish watched it with wide eyes, as if he’d revealed a glowing gemstone of incalculable wealth.

This time Vizier Noura herself stepped forward and took it. “ ‘Verdict,’ ” she read from the top. “ ‘By Jasnah Kholin.’ ”

The others pushed through the guards, gathering around, and began reading it to themselves. Though this was the shortest of the essays, he heard them whispering and marveling over it.

“Look, it incorporates all seven of Aqqu’s Logical Forms!”

“That’s an allusion to the Grand Orientation. And … storms … she quotes Prime Kasimarlix in three successive stages, each escalating the same quote to a different level of Superior Understanding.”

One woman held her hand to her mouth. “It’s written entirely in a single rhythmic meter!”

“Great Yaezir,” Noura said. “You’re right.”

“The allusions…”

“Such wordplay…”

“The momentum and rhetoric…”

Logicspren burst around them in the shape of little stormclouds. Then, practically as one, the scions and viziers turned to Dalinar.

“This is a work of art,” Noura said.

“Is it … persuasive?” Dalinar asked.

“It provokes further consideration,” Noura said, looking to the others, who nodded. “You actually came alone. We are shocked by that—aren’t you worried for your safety?”

“Your Radiant,” Dalinar said, “has proven to be wise for one so young. I am certain I can depend on her for my safety.”

“I don’t know that I’d depend on her for anything,” said one of the men, chuckling. “Unless it’s swiping your pocket change.”

“All the same,” Dalinar said, “I have come begging you to trust me. This seemed the best proof of my intentions.” He spread his hands to the sides. “Do not send me back immediately. Let us talk as allies, not men in a battlefield tent of parley.”

“I will bring these essays before the Prime and his formal council,” Vizier Noura finally said. “I admit he seems fond of you, despite your inexplicable invasion of his dreams. Come with us.”

That would lead him away from the Oathgate, and any chance he had at transferring home in an emergency. But that was what he’d been hoping for.

“Gladly, Your Grace.”

They walked along a twisting path through the dome-covered market—which was now empty, like a ghost town. Many of the streets ended at barricades manned by troops.

They’d turned the Azimir Grand Market into a kind of reverse fortress, intended to protect the city from whatever might come through the Oathgate. If troops left the control building, they would find themselves in a maze of confusing streets.

Unfortunately for the Azish, the control building alone was not the gate. A Radiant could make this entire dome vanish, replaced with an army in the middle of Azimir. He’d have to be delicate about how he explained that.

He walked with Vizier Noura, followed by the other scribes, who passed the essays around again. Noura didn’t make small talk with him, and Dalinar maintained no illusions. This trip through the dark indoor streets—with packed market buildings and twisting paths—was meant to confuse him, should he try to remember the way.

They eventually climbed up to a second level and left through a doorway out onto a ledge along the outside rim of the dome. Clever. From up here, he could see that the ground-floor exits from the market were barricaded or sealed off. The only clear way out was up that flight of steps, onto this platform around the circumference of the large bronze dome, then down another set of steps.

From this upper ramp, he could see some of Azimir—and was relieved by how little destruction he saw. Some of the neighborhoods on the west side of the city seemed to have collapsed, but all in all, the city had weathered the Everstorm in good shape. Most of the structures were stone here, and the grand domes—many overlaid with reddish-gold bronze—reflected the sunlight like molten marvels. The people wore colorful clothing, of patterns that scribes could read like a language.

This summer season was warmer than he was accustomed to. Dalinar turned east. Urithiru lay somewhere in that direction, in the border mountains—far closer to Azir than to Alethkar.

“This way, Blackthorn,” Noura said, starting down the wooden ramp. It was constructed upon a woodwork lattice. Seeing those wooden stilts, Dalinar had a moment of surreal memory. It vaguely reminded him of something, of perching above a city and looking down at wooden lattices.…

Rathalas, he thought. The Rift. The city that had rebelled. Right. He felt a chill, and the pressure of something hidden trying to thrust itself into his consciousness. There was more to remember about that place.

He walked down the ramp, and took it as a mark of respect that two entire divisions of troops surrounded the dome. “Shouldn’t those men be on the walls?” Dalinar asked. “What if the Voidbringers attack?”

“They’ve withdrawn through Emul,” Noura said. “Most of that country is on fire by now, due to either the parshmen or Tezim’s armies.”

Tezim. Who was a Herald. Surely he wouldn’t side with the enemy, would he? Perhaps the best thing they could hope for was a war between the Voidbringers and the armies of a mad Herald.

Rickshaws waited for them below. Noura joined him in one. It was novel, being pulled by a man acting like a chull. Though it was faster than a palanquin, Dalinar found it far less stately.

The city was laid out in a very orderly manner. Navani had always admired that. He watched for more signs of destruction, and while he found few, a different oddity struck him. Masses of people standing in clumps, wearing colorful vests, loose trousers or skirts, and patterned caps. They shouted about unfairness, and though they looked angry, they were surrounded by logicspren.

“What’s all this?” Dalinar asked.

“Protestors.” She looked to him, and obviously noted his confusion. “They’ve lodged a formal complaint, rejecting an order to exit the city and work the farms. This gives them a one-month period to make their grievances known before being forced to comply.”

“They can simply disobey an imperial order?”

“I suppose you’d merely march everyone out at swordpoint. Well, we don’t do things that way here. There are processes. Our people aren’t slaves.”

Dalinar found himself bristling; she obviously didn’t know much about Alethkar, if she assumed all Alethi darkeyes were like chulls to be herded around. The lower classes had a long and proud tradition of rights related to their social ranking.

“Those people,” he said, realizing something, “have been ordered to the fields because you lost your parshmen.”

“Our fields haven’t yet been planted,” Noura said, eyes growing distant. “It’s like they knew the very best time to cripple us by leaving. Carpenters and cobblers must be pressed into manual labor, just to prevent a famine. We might feed ourselves, but our trades and infrastructure will be devastated.”

In Alethkar, they hadn’t been as fixated on this, as reclaiming the kingdom was more pressing. In Thaylenah, the disaster had been physical, the city ravaged. Both kingdoms had been distracted from a more subversive disaster, the economic one.

“How did it happen?” Dalinar asked. “The parshmen leaving?”

“They gathered in the storm,” she said. “Leaving homes and walking right out into it. Some reports said the parshmen claimed to hear the beating of drums. Other reports—these are all very contradictory—speak of spren guiding the parshmen.

“They swarmed the city gates, threw them open in the rain, then moved out onto the plain surrounding the city. The next day, they demanded formal economic redress for improper appropriation of their labors. They claimed the subsection of the rules exempting parshmen from wages was extralegal, and put a motion through the courts. We were negotiating—a bizarre experience, I must say—before some of their leaders got them marching off instead.”

Interesting. Alethi parshmen had acted Alethi—immediately gathering for war. The Thaylen parshmen had taken to the seas. And the Azish parshmen … well, they’d done something quintessentially Azish. They had lodged a complaint with the government.

He had to be careful not to dwell on how amusing that sounded, if only because Navani had warned him not to underestimate the Azish. Alethi liked to joke about them—insult one of their soldiers, it was said, and he’d submit a form requesting an opportunity to swear at you. But that was a caricature, likely about as accurate as Noura’s own impression of his people always doing everything by the sword and spear.

Once at the palace, Dalinar tried to follow Noura and the other scribes into the main building—but soldiers instead gestured him toward a small outbuilding.

“I was hoping,” he called after Noura, “to speak with the emperor in person.”

“Unfortunately, this petition cannot be granted,” she said. The group left him and strode into the grand palace itself, a majestic bronze building with bulbous domes.

The soldiers sequestered him in a narrow chamber with a low table at the center and nice couches along the sides. They left him inside the small room alone, but took up positions outside. It wasn’t quite a prison, but he obviously wasn’t to be allowed to roam either.

He sighed and sat on a couch, dropping his lunch to the table beside some bowls of dried fruit and nuts. He took the spanreed out and sent a brief signal to Navani that meant time, the agreed sign that he was to be given another hour before anyone panicked.

He rose and began pacing. How did men suffer this? In battle, you won or lost based on strength of arms. At the end of the day, you knew where you stood.

This endless talking left him so uncertain. Would the viziers dismiss the essays? Jasnah’s reputation seemed to be powerful even here, but they’d seemed less impressed by her argument than by the way she expressed it.

You’ve always worried about this, haven’t you? the Stormfather said in his mind.

“About what?”

That the world would come to be ruled by pens and scribes, not swords and generals.

“I…” Blood of my fathers. That was true.

Was that why he insisted on negotiating himself? Why he didn’t send ambassadors? Was it because deep down, he didn’t trust their gilded words and intricate promises, all contained in documents he couldn’t read? Pieces of paper that were somehow harder than the strongest Shardplate?

“The contests of kingdoms are supposed to be a masculine art,” he said. “I should be able to do this myself.”

The Stormfather rumbled, not truly in disagreement. Just in … amusement?

Dalinar finally settled onto one of the couches. Might as well eat something … except his cloth-wrapped lunch lay open, crumbs on the table, the wooden curry box empty save for a few drips. What on Roshar?

He slowly looked up at the other couch. The slender Reshi girl perched not on the seat, but up on the backrest. She wore an oversized Azish robe and cap, and was gnawing on the sausage Navani had packed with the meal, to be cut into the curry.

“Kind of bland,” she said.

“Soldier’s rations,” Dalinar said. “I prefer them.”

“’Cuz you’re bland?”

“I prefer not to let a meal become a distraction. Were you in here all along?”

She shrugged, continuing to eat his food. “You said something earlier. About men?”

“I … was beginning to realize that I’m uncomfortable with the idea of scribes controlling the fates of nations. The things women write are stronger than my military.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Lots of boys is afraid of girls.”

“I’m not—”

“They say it changes when you grow up,” she said, leaning forward. “I wouldn’t know, because I ain’t going to grow. I figured it out. I just gotta stop eatin’. People that don’t eat, don’t get bigger. Easy.”

She said it all around mouthfuls of his food.

“Easy,” Dalinar said. “I’m sure.”

“I’m gonna start any day now,” she said. “You want that fruit, or…”

He leaned forward, pushing the two bowls of dried fruit toward her. She attacked them. Dalinar leaned back in the seat. This girl seemed so out of place. Though she was lighteyed—with pale, clear irises—that didn’t matter as much in the west. The regal clothing was too big on her, and she didn’t take care to keep her hair pulled back and tucked up under the cap.

This entire room—this entire city, really—was an exercise in ostentation. Metal leaf coated domes, the rickshaws, even large portions of the walls of this room. The Azish owned only a few Soulcasters, and famously one could make bronze.

The carpeting and couches displayed bright patterns of orange and red. The Alethi favored solid colors, perhaps some embroidery. The Azish preferred their decorations to look like the product of a painter having a sneezing fit.

In the middle of it all was this girl, who looked so simple. She swam through ostentation, but it didn’t stick to her.

“I listened to what they’re sayin’ in there, tight-butt,” the girl said. “Before comin’ here. I think they’re gonna deny you. They gots a finger.”

“I should think they have many fingers.”

“Nah, this is an extra one. Dried out, looks like it belonged to some gramma’s gramma, but it’s actually from an emperor. Emperor Snot-a-Lot or—”

“Snoxil?” Dalinar asked.

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“He was Prime when my ancestor sacked Azimir,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “It’s a relic.” The Azish could be a superstitious lot, for all their claims about logic and essays and codes of law. This relic was probably being used during their discussions as a reminder of the last time the Alethi had been in Azir.

“Yeah, well, all I know is he’s dead, so he ain’t got to worry about … about…”

“Odium.”

The Reshi girl shivered visibly.

“Could you go and talk to the viziers?” Dalinar asked. “Tell them that you think supporting my coalition is a good idea? They listened to you when you asked to unlock the Oathgate.”

“Nah, they listened to Gawx,” she said. “The geezers that run the city don’t like me much.”

Dalinar grunted. “Your name is Lift, right?”

“Right.”

“And your order?”

“More food.”

“I meant your order of Knights Radiant. What powers do you have?”

“Oh. Um … Edgedancer? I slip around and stuff.”

“Slip around.”

“It’s real fun. Except when I run into things. Then it’s only kinda fun.”

Dalinar leaned forward, wishing—again—he could go in and talk to all those fools and scribes.

No. For once, trust in someone else, Dalinar.

Lift cocked her head. “Huh. You smell like her.”

“Her?”

“The crazy spren who lives in the forest.”

“You’ve met the Nightwatcher?”

“Yeah … You?”

He nodded.

They sat there, uncomfortable, until the young girl handed one of her bowls of dried fruit toward Dalinar. He took a piece and chewed it in silence, and she took another.

They ate the entire bowl, saying nothing until the door opened. Dalinar jumped. Noura stood in the doorway, flanked by other viziers. Her eyes flickered toward Lift, and she smiled. Noura didn’t seem to think as poorly of Lift as the little girl indicated.

Dalinar stood up, feeling a sense of dread. He prepared his arguments, his pleas. They had to—

“The emperor and his council,” Noura said, “have decided to accept your invitation to visit Urithiru.”

Dalinar cut off his objection. Did she say accept?

“The Prime of Emul has almost reached Azir,” Noura said. “He brought the Sage with him, and they should be willing to join us. Unfortunately, following the parshman assault, Emul is a fraction of what it once was. I suspect he will be eager for any and every source of aid, and will welcome this coalition of yours.

“The prince of Tashikk has an ambassador—his brother—in the city. He’ll come as well, and the princess of Yezier is reportedly coming in person to plead for aid. We’ll see about her. I think she simply believes Azimir will be safer. She lives here half the year anyway.

“Alm and Desh have ambassadors in the city, and Liafor is always eager to join whatever we do, as long as they can cater the storming meetings. I can’t speak for Steen—they’re a tricky bunch. I doubt you want Tukar’s priest-king, and Marat is overrun. But we can bring a good sampling of the empire to join your discussions.”

“I…” Dalinar stammered. “Thank you!” It was actually happening! As they’d hoped, Azir was the linchpin.

“Well, your wife writes a good essay,” Noura said.

He started. “Navani’s essay was the one that convinced you? Not Jasnah’s?”

“Each of the three arguments were weighed favorably, and the reports from Thaylen City are encouraging,” Noura said. “That had no small part in our decision. But while Jasnah Kholin’s writing is every bit as impressive as her reputation suggests, there was something … more authentic about Lady Navani’s plea.”

“She is one of the most authentic people I know.” Dalinar smiled like a fool. “And she is good at getting what she wants.”

“Let me lead you back to the Oathgate. We will be in contact about the Prime’s visit to your city.”

Dalinar collected his spanreed and bade farewell to Lift, who stood on the back of the couch and waved to him. The sky looked brighter as the viziers accompanied him back to the dome that housed the Oathgate. He could hear them speaking eagerly as they entered the rickshaws; they seemed to be embracing this decision with gusto, now that it had been made.

Dalinar passed the trip quietly, worried that he might say something brutish and ruin things. Once they entered the market dome, he did take the opportunity to mention to Noura that the Oathgate could be used to transport everything there, including the dome itself.

“I’m afraid that it’s a larger security threat than you know,” he finished saying to her as they reached the control building.

“What would it do,” she said, “if we built a structure halfway across the plateau perimeter? Would it slice the thing in two? What if a person is half on, half off?”

“That we don’t know yet,” Dalinar said, fumbling the spanreed on and off in a pattern to send the signal that would bring Jasnah back through the Oathgate to fetch him.

“I’ll admit,” Noura said softly as the other viziers chatted behind, “I’m … not pleased at being overruled. I am the emperor’s loyal servant, but I do not like the idea of your Radiants, Dalinar Kholin. These powers are dangerous, and the ancient Radiants turned traitor in the end.”

“I will convince you,” Dalinar said. “We will prove ourselves to you. All I need is a chance.”

The Oathgate flashed, and Jasnah appeared inside. Dalinar bowed to Noura in respect, then stepped backward into the building.

“You are not what I expected, Blackthorn,” Noura said.

“And what did you expect?”

“An animal,” she said frankly. “A half-man creature of war and blood.”

Something about that struck him. An animal … Echoes of memories shuddered inside of him.

“I was that man,” Dalinar said. “I’ve merely been blessed with enough good examples to make me aspire to something more.” He nodded to Jasnah, who repositioned her sword, rotating the inner wall to initiate the transfer and take them back to Urithiru.

Navani waited outside the building. Dalinar stepped out and blinked at the sunlight, chilled by the mountain cold. He smiled broadly at her, opening his mouth to tell her what her essay had done.

An animal … An animal reacts when it is prodded …

Memories.

You whip it, and it becomes savage.

Dalinar stumbled.

He vaguely heard Navani crying out, yelling for help. His vision spun, and he fell to his knees, feeling an overwhelming nausea. He clawed at the stone, groaning, breaking fingernails. Navani … Navani was calling for a healer. She thought he’d been poisoned.

It wasn’t that. No, it was far, far worse.

Storms. He remembered. It came crashing down on him, the weight of a thousand boulders.

He remembered what had happened to Evi. It had started in a cold fortress, in highlands once claimed by Jah Keved.

It had ended at the Rift.

66. Strategist

Dalinar’s breath misted as he leaned on the stone windowsill. In the room behind him, soldiers set up a table with a map on it.

“See there,” Dalinar said, pointing out the window. “That ledge down there?”

Adolin, now twelve years old—nearly thirteen—leaned out the window. The outside of the large stone keep bulged here at the second floor, which would make scaling it challenging—but the stonework provided a convenient handhold in the form of a ledge right below the window.

“I see it,” Adolin said.

“Good. Now watch.” Dalinar gestured into the room. One of his guards pulled a lever, and the stonework ledge retracted into the wall.

“It moved!” Adolin said. “Do that again!”

The soldier obliged, using the lever to make the ledge stick out, then retract again.

“Neat!” Adolin said. So full of energy, as always. If only Dalinar could harness that for the battlefield. He wouldn’t need Shards to conquer.

“Why did they build that, do you think?” Dalinar asked.

“In case people climb it! You could make them drop back down!”

“Defense against Shardbearers,” Dalinar said, nodding. “A fall this far would crack their Plate, but the fortress also has interior corridor sections that are too narrow to maneuver in properly with Plate and Blade.”

Dalinar smiled. Who knew that such a gem had been hiding in the highlands between Alethkar and Jah Keved? This solitary keep would provide a nice barrier if true war ever did break out with the Vedens.

He gestured for Adolin to move back, then shuttered the window and rubbed his chilled hands. This chamber was decorated like a lodge, hung with old forgotten greatshell trophies. At the side, a soldier stoked a flame in the hearth.

The battles with the Vedens had wound down. Though the last few fights had been disappointing, having his son with him had been an absolute delight. Adolin hadn’t gone into battle, of course, but he’d joined them at tactics meetings. Dalinar had at first assumed the generals would be annoyed at the presence of a child, but it was hard to find little Adolin annoying. He was so earnest, so interested.

Together, he and Adolin joined a few of Dalinar’s lesser officers at the room’s table map. “Now,” Dalinar said to Adolin, “let’s see how well you’ve been paying attention. Where are we now?”

Adolin leaned over, pointing at the map. “This is our new keep, which you won for the crown! Here’s the old border, where it used to be. Here’s the new border in blue, which we won back from those thieving Vedens. They’ve held our land for twenty years.”

“Excellent,” Dalinar said. “But it’s not merely land we’ve won.”

“Trade treaties!” Adolin said. “That’s the point of the big ceremony we had to do. You and that Veden highprince, in formal dress. We won the right to trade for tons of stuff for cheap.”

“Yes, but that’s not the most important thing we won.”

Adolin frowned. “Um … horses…”

“No, son, the most important thing we’ve won is legitimacy. In signing this new treaty, the Veden king has recognized Gavilar as the rightful king of Alethkar. We’ve not just defended our borders, we’ve forestalled a greater war, as the Vedens now acknowledge our right to rule—and won’t be pressing their own.”

Adolin nodded, understanding.

It was gratifying to see how much one could accomplish in both politics and trade by liberally murdering the other fellow’s soldiers. These last years full of skirmishes had reminded Dalinar of why he lived. More, they’d given him something new. In his youth, he’d warred, then spent the evenings drinking with his soldiers.

Now he had to explain his choices, vocalize them for the ears of an eager young boy who had questions for everything—and expected Dalinar to know the answers.

Storms, it was a challenge. But it felt good. Incredibly good. He had no intention of ever returning to a useless life spent wasting away in Kholinar, going to parties and getting into tavern brawls. Dalinar smiled and accepted a cup of warmed wine, surveying the map. Though Adolin had been focused on the region where they were fighting the Vedens, Dalinar’s eyes were instead drawn to another section.

It included, written in pencil, the numbers he’d requested: projections of troops at the Rift.

“Viim cachi eko!” Evi said, stepping into the room, holding her arms tight to her chest and shivering. “I had thought central Alethkar was cold. Adolin Kholin, where is your jacket?”

The boy looked down, as if suddenly surprised that he wasn’t wearing it. “Um…” He looked to Teleb, who merely smiled, shaking his head.

“Run along, son,” Dalinar said. “You have geography lessons today.”

“Can I stay? I don’t want to leave you.”

He wasn’t speaking merely of today. The time was approaching when Adolin would go to spend part of the year in Kholinar, to drill with the swordmasters and receive formal training in diplomacy. He spent most of the year with Dalinar, but it was important he get some refinement in the capital.

“Go,” Dalinar said. “If you pay attention in your lesson, I’ll take you riding tomorrow.”

Adolin sighed, then saluted. He hopped off his stool and gave his mother a hug—which was un-Alethi, but Dalinar suffered the behavior. Then he was out the door.

Evi stepped up to the fire. “So cold. What possessed someone to build a fortress way up here?”

“It’s not that bad,” Dalinar said. “You should visit the Frostlands in a season of winter.”

“You Alethi cannot understand cold. Your bones are frozen.”

Dalinar grunted his response, then leaned down over the map. I’ll need to approach from the south, march up along the lake’s coast.…

“The king is sending a message via spanreed,” Evi noted. “It’s being scribed now.”

Her accent is fading, Dalinar noticed absently. When she sat down in a chair by the fire, she supported herself with her right hand, safehand tucked demurely against her waist. She kept her blonde hair in Alethi braids, rather than letting it tumble about her shoulders.

She’d never be a great scribe—she didn’t have the youthful training in art and letters of a Vorin woman. Besides, she didn’t like books, and preferred her meditations. But she’d tried hard these last years, and he was impressed.

She still complained that he didn’t see Renarin enough. The other son was unfit for battle, and spent most of his time in Kholinar. Evi spent half the year back with him.

No, no, Dalinar thought, writing a glyph on the map. The coast is the expected route. What then? An amphibious assault across the lake? He’d need to see if he could get ships for that.

A scribe eventually entered bearing the king’s letter, and everyone but Dalinar and Evi left. Evi held the letter and hesitated. “Do you want to sit, or—”

“No, go ahead.”

Evi cleared her voice. “ ‘Brother,’ ” the letter began, “ ‘the treaty is sealed. Your efforts in Jah Keved are to be commended, and this should be a time of celebration and congratulations. Indeed, on a personal note, I wish to express my pride in you. The word from our best generals is that your tactical instincts have matured to full-fledged strategic genius. I never counted myself among their ranks, but to a man, they commend you as their equal.

“ ‘As I have grown to become a king, it seems you have found your place as our general. I’m most interested to hear your own reports of the small mobile team tactics you’ve been employing. I would like to speak in person at length about all of this—indeed, I have important revelations of my own I would like to share. It would be best if we could meet in person. Once, I enjoyed your company every day. Now I believe it has been three years since we last spoke face to face.’ ”

“But,” Dalinar said, interrupting, “the Rift needs to be dealt with.”

Evi broke off, looking at him, then back down at the page. She continued reading. “ ‘Unfortunately, our meeting will have to wait a few storms longer. Though your efforts on the border have certainly helped solidify our power, I have failed to dominate Rathalas and its renegade leader with politics.

“ ‘I must send you to the Rift again. You are to quell this faction. Civil war could tear Alethkar to shreds, and I dare not wait any longer. In truth, I wish I’d listened when we spoke—so many years ago—and you challenged me to send you to the Rift.

“ ‘Sadeas will gather reinforcements and join you. Please send word of your strategic assessment of the problem. Be warned, we are certain now that one of the other highprinces—we don’t know who—is supporting Tanalan and his rebellion. He may have access to Shards. I wish you strength of purpose, and the Heralds’ own blessings, in your new task. With love and respect, Gavilar.’ ”

Evi looked up. “How did you know, Dalinar? You’ve been poring over those maps for weeks—maps of the Crownlands and of Alethkar. You knew he was going to assign you this task.”

“What kind of strategist would I be if I couldn’t foresee the next battle?”

“I thought we were going to relax,” Evi said. “We were going to be done with the killing.”

“With the momentum I have? What a waste that would be! If not for this problem in Rathalas, Gavilar would have found somewhere else for me to fight. Herdaz again, perhaps. You can’t have your best general sitting around collecting crem.”

Besides. There would be men and women among Gavilar’s advisors who worried about Dalinar. If anyone was a threat to the throne, it would be the Blackthorn—particularly with the respect he’d gained from the kingdom’s generals. Though Dalinar had decided years ago that he would never do such a thing, many at court would think the kingdom safer if he were kept away.

“No, Evi,” he said as he made another notation, “I doubt we will ever settle back in Kholinar again.”

He nodded to himself. That was the way to get the Rift. One of his mobile bands could round and secure the lake’s beach. He could move the entire army across it then, attacking far faster than the Rift expected.

Satisfied, he looked up. And found Evi crying.

The sight stunned him, and he dropped his pencil. She tried to hold it back, turning toward the fire and wrapping her arms around herself, but the sniffles sounded as distinct and disturbing as breaking bones.

Kelek’s breath … he could face soldiers and storms, falling boulders and dying friends, but nothing in his training had ever prepared him to deal with these soft tears.

“Seven years,” she whispered. “Seven years we’ve been out here, living in wagons and waystops. Seven years of murder, of chaos, of men crying to their wounds.”

“You married—”

“Yes, I married a soldier. It’s my fault for not being strong enough to deal with the consequences. Thank you, Dalinar. You’ve made that very clear.”

This was what it was like to feel helpless. “I … thought you were growing to like it. You now fit in with the other women.”

“The other women? Dalinar, they make me feel stupid.”

“But…”

“Conversation is a contest to them,” Evi said, throwing her hands up. “Everything has to be a contest to you Alethi, always trying to show up everyone else. For the women it’s this awful, unspoken game to prove how witty they each are. I’ve thought … maybe the only answer, to make you proud, is to go to the Nightwatcher and ask for the blessing of intelligence. The Old Magic can change a person. Make something great of them—”

“Evi,” Dalinar cut in. “Please, don’t speak of that place or that creature. It’s blasphemous.”

“You say that, Dalinar,” she said. “But no one actually cares about religion here. Oh, they make sure to point out how superior their beliefs are to mine. But who actually ever worries about the Heralds, other than to swear by their names? You bring ardents to battle merely to Soulcast rocks into grain. That way, you don’t have to stop killing each other long enough to find something to eat.”

Dalinar approached, then settled down into the other seat by the hearth. “It is … different in your homeland?”

She rubbed her eyes, and he wondered if she’d see through his attempt to change the subject. Talking about her people often smoothed over their arguments.

“Yes,” she said. “True, there are those who don’t care about the One or the Heralds. They say we shouldn’t accept Iriali or Vorin doctrines as our own. But Dalinar, many do care. Here … here you just pay some ardent to burn glyphwards for you and call it done.”

Dalinar took a deep breath and tried again. “Perhaps, after I’ve seen to the rebels, I can persuade Gavilar not to give me another assignment. We could travel. Go west, to your homeland.”

“So you could kill my people instead?”

“No! I wouldn’t—”

“They’d attack you, Dalinar. My brother and I are exiles, if you haven’t forgotten.”

He hadn’t seen Toh in a decade, ever since the man had gone to Herdaz. He reportedly liked it quite well, living on the coast, protected by Alethi bodyguards.

Evi sighed. “I’ll never see the sunken forests again. I’ve accepted that. I will live my life in this harsh land, so dominated by wind and cold.”

“Well, we could travel someplace warm. Up to the Steamwater. Just you and I. Time together. We could even bring Adolin.”

“And Renarin?” Evi asked. “Dalinar, you have two sons, in case you have forgotten. Do you even care about the child’s condition? Or is he nothing to you now that he can’t become a soldier?”

Dalinar grunted, feeling like he’d taken a mace to the head. He stood up, then walked toward the table.

“What?” Evi demanded.

“I’ve been in enough battles to know when I’ve found one I can’t win.”

“So you flee?” Evi said. “Like a coward?”

“The coward,” Dalinar said, gathering his maps, “is the man who delays a necessary retreat for fear of being mocked. We’ll go back to Kholinar after I deal with the rebellion at the Rift. I’ll promise you at least a year there.”

“Really?” Evi said, standing up.

“Yes. You’ve won this fight.”

“I … don’t feel like I’ve won.…”

“Welcome to war, Evi,” Dalinar said, heading toward the door. “There are no unequivocal wins. Just victories that leave fewer of your friends dead than others.”

He left and slammed the door behind him. Sounds of her weeping chased him down the steps, and shamespren fell around him like flower petals. Storms, I don’t deserve that woman, do I?

Well, so be it. The argument was her fault, as were the repercussions. He stomped down the steps to find his generals, and continue planning his return assault on the Rift.

Shallan’s Sketchbook: Kholinar Spren

67. Mishim

A day after being murdered in a brutal fashion, Shallan found that she was feeling much better. The sense of oppression had left her, and even her horror seemed distant. What lingered was that single glimpse she’d seen in the mirror: a glimmer of the Unmade’s presence, beyond the plane of the reflection.

The mirrors in the tailor’s shop didn’t show such proclivities; she had checked every one. Just in case, she’d given a drawing of the thing she’d seen to the others, and warned them to watch.

Today, she strolled into the little kitchen, which was beside the rear workroom. Adolin ate flatbread and curry while King Elhokar sat at the room’s table, earnestly … writing something? No, he was drawing.

Shallan rested fond fingers on Adolin’s shoulder and enjoyed his grin in response. Then she rounded to peek over the king’s shoulder. He was doing a map of the city, with the palace and the Oathgate platform. It wasn’t half bad.

“Anyone seen the bridgeman?” Elhokar asked.

“Here,” Kaladin said, strolling in from the workroom. Yokska, her husband, and her maid were out shopping for more food, using spheres that Elhokar had provided. Food was apparently still for sale in the city, if you had the spheres to pay.

“I,” Elhokar said, “have devised a plan for how to proceed in this city.”

Shallan shared a look with Adolin, who shrugged. “What do you suggest, Your Majesty?”

“Thanks to the Lightweaver’s excellent reconnaissance,” the king said, “it is evident my wife is being held captive by her own guards.”

“We don’t know that for certain, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “It sounded like the queen has succumbed to whatever is affecting the guards.”

“Either way, she is in need of rescue,” Elhokar said. “Either we must sneak into the palace for her and little Gavinor, or we must rally a military force to help us capture the location by strength of arms.” He tapped his map of the city with his pen. “The Oathgate, however, remains our priority. Brightness Davar, I want you to investigate this Cult of Moments. Find out how they’re using the Oathgate platform.”

Yokska had confirmed that each night, some members of the cult set a blazing fire on top of the platform. They guarded the place all hours of the day.

“If you could join whatever ritual or event they are performing,” the king said, “you would be within feet of the Oathgate. You could transport the entire plateau to Urithiru, and let our armies there deal with the cult.

“In case that is not viable, Adolin and I—in the guise of important lighteyes from the Shattered Plains—shall contact the lighteyed houses in the city who maintain private guard forces. We shall gather their support, perhaps revealing our true identities, and put together an army for assaulting the palace, if needed.”

“And me?” Kaladin asked.

“I don’t like the sound of this Azure person. See what you can find out about him and his Wall Guard.”

Kaladin nodded, then grunted.

“It’s a good plan, Elhokar,” Adolin said. “Nice work.”

A simple compliment probably should not have made a king beam like it did. Elhokar even drew a gloryspren—and notably, it didn’t seem different from ordinary ones.

“But there is something we have to face,” Adolin continued. “Have you listened to the list of charges that ardent—the one who got executed—made against the queen?”

“I … Yes.”

“Ten glyphs,” Adolin said, “denouncing Aesudan’s excess. Wasting food while people starved. Increasing taxes, then throwing lavish parties for her ardents. Elhokar, this started long before the Everstorm.”

“We can … ask her,” the king said. “Once she is safe. Something must have been wrong. Aesudan was always proud, and always ambitious, but never gluttonous.” He eyed Adolin. “I know that Jasnah says I shouldn’t have married her—that Aesudan was too hungry for power. Jasnah never understood. I needed Aesudan. Someone with strength…” He took a deep breath, then stood up. “We mustn’t waste time. The plan. Do you agree with it?”

“I like it,” Shallan said.

Kaladin nodded. “It’s too general, but it’s at least a line of attack. Additionally, we need to trace the grain in the city. Yokska says the lighteyes provide it, but she also says the palace stores are closed.”

“You think someone has a Soulcaster?” Adolin asked.

“I think this city has too many secrets,” Kaladin said.

“Adolin and I shall ask the lighteyes, and see if they know,” Elhokar said, then looked to Shallan. “The Cult of Moments?”

“I’ll get on it,” she said. “I need a new coat anyway.”

She slipped out of the building again as Veil. She wore the trousers and her coat, though that now had a hole in the back. Ishnah had been able to wash the blood off, but Veil still wanted to replace it. For now, she covered the hole with a Lightweaving.

Veil sauntered down the street, and found herself feeling increasingly confident. Back in Urithiru, she’d still been struggling to get her coat on straight, so to speak. She winced as she thought of her trips through the bars, making a fool of herself. You didn’t need to prove how much you could drink in order to look tough—but that was the sort of thing you couldn’t learn without wearing the coat, living in it.

She turned toward the market, where she hoped to get a feel for Kholinar’s people. She needed to know how they thought before she could begin to understand how the Cult of Moments had come to be, and therefore how to infiltrate it.

This market was very different from those at Urithiru, or the night markets of Kharbranth. First off, this one was obviously ancient. These worn, weathered shops felt like they’d been here for the first Desolation. These were stones smoothed by the touch of a million fingers, or indented by the press of thousands of passing feet. Awnings bleached by the progression of day after day.

The street was wide, and not crowded. Some stalls were empty, and the remaining merchants didn’t shout at her as she passed. These seemed effects of the smothered sensation everyone felt—the feeling of a city besieged.

Yokska served only men, and Veil wouldn’t have wanted to reveal herself to the woman anyway. So she stopped at a clothier and tried on some new coats. She chatted with the woman who ran the accounts—her husband was the actual tailor—and got some suggestions on where to look for a coat matching her current one, then stepped back out onto the street.

Soldiers in light blue patrolled here, the glyphs on their uniforms proclaiming them to be of House Velalant. Yokska had described their brightlord as a minor player in the city until so many lighteyes had vanished into the palace.

Veil shivered, remembering the line of corpses. Adolin and Elhokar were fairly certain those were the remnants of a distant Kholin and his attendants—a man named Kaves, who had often tried to gain power in the city. Neither were sad to see him go, but it whispered of a continuing mystery. More than thirty people had gone to meet with the queen, many more powerful than Kaves. What had happened to them?

She passed an assortment of vendors peddling the usual range of necessities and curiosities, from ceramics to dining wares, to fine knives. It was nice to see that here, the soldiers had imposed some semblance of order. Perhaps rather than fixating on the closed stalls, Veil should have appreciated how many were still open.

The third clothing shop finally had a coat she liked, of the same style as her old one—white and long, past her knees. She paid to have it taken in, then casually asked the seamstress about the city’s grain.

The answers led her one street over to a grain station. It had formerly been a Thaylen bank, with the words Secure Keeps across the top in Thaylen and the women’s script. The proprietors had long ago fled—moneylenders seemed to have a sixth sense for impending danger, the way some animals could sense a storm hours before it arrived.

The soldiers in light blue had appropriated it, and the vaults now protected precious grain. People waited in line outside, and at the front, soldiers doled out enough lavis for one day’s flatbread and gruel.

It was a good sign—if a distinct and terrible reminder of the city’s situation. She would have applauded Velalant’s kindness, save for his soldiers’ blatant incompetence. They shouted at everyone to stay in line, but didn’t do anything to enforce the order. They did have a scribe watching to make sure nobody got in line twice, but they didn’t exclude people who were obviously too well-to-do to need the handout.

Veil glanced around the market, and noted people watching from the crannies and hollows of abandoned stalls. The poor and unwanted, those destitute beyond even the refugees. Tattered clothing, dirty faces. They watched like spren drawn by a powerful emotion.

Veil settled down on a low wall beside a drainage trough. A boy huddled nearby, watching the line with hungry eyes. One of his arms ended in a twisted, unusable hand: three fingers mere nubs, the other two crooked.

She fished in her trouser pocket. Shallan didn’t carry food, but Veil knew the importance of having something to chew on. She could have sworn she’d tucked something in while getting ready.… There it was. A meat stick, Soulcast but flavored with sugar. Not quite large enough to be a sausage. She bit off an end, then wagged the rest toward the urchin.

The boy sized her up, probably trying to determine her angle. Finally he crept over and took the offering, quickly stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. He waited, eyeing her to see if she had more.

“Why don’t you get in line?” Veil asked.

“They got rules. Gotta be a certain age. And if you’re too poor, they shove ya out of line.”

“For what reason?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t need one, I guess. They say you’ve already been through, ’cept you haven’t.”

“Many of those people … they’re servants from wealthy homes, aren’t they?”

The urchin nodded.

Storming lighteyes, Veil thought as she watched. Some of the poor were shoved out of line for one infraction or another, as the urchin had claimed. The others waited patiently, as it was their job. They’d been sent by wealthy homes to collect food. Many bore the lean, strong look of house guards, though they didn’t wear uniforms.

Storms. Velalant’s men really had no idea how to do this. Or maybe they know exactly what they’re doing, she thought. And Velalant is just keeping the local lighteyes happy and ready to support his rule, should the winds turn his way.

It made Veil sick. She fished out a second meat stick for the urchin, then started to ask him how far Velalant’s influence reached—but the kid was gone in a heartbeat.

The grain distribution ended, and a lot of unhappy people called out in despair. The soldiers said they’d do another handout in the evening, and counseled people to line up and wait. Then the bank closed its doors.

But where did Velalant get the food? Veil rose and continued through the market, passing pools of angerspren. Some looked like the normal pools of blood; others were more like tar, pitch-black. When the bubbles in these popped, they showed a burning red within, like embers. Those vanished as people settled down to wait—and exhaustionspren appeared instead.

Her optimism about the market evaporated. She passed crowds milling about, looking lost, and read depression in people’s eyes. Why try to pretend life could go on? They were doomed. The Voidbringers were going to rip this city apart—if they didn’t simply let everyone starve.

Someone needed to do something. Veil needed to do something. Infiltrating the Cult of Moments suddenly seemed too abstract. Couldn’t she do something directly for these poor people? Except … she hadn’t even been able to save her own family. She had no idea what Mraize had done with her brothers, and she refused to think about them. How would she save an entire city?

She shouldered through the crowd, seeking freedom, suddenly feeling trapped. She needed out. She—

What was that sound?

Shallan pulled up short, turning, hearing. Storms. It couldn’t be, could it? She drifted toward the sound, that voice.

“You say that, my dear man,” it proclaimed, “but everyone thinks they know the moons. How could they not? We live beneath their gaze each night. We’ve known them longer than our friends, our wives, our children. And yet … and yet…”

Shallan pushed through the milling crowd to find him sitting on the low wall around a storm cistern. A metal brazier burned before him, emitting thin lines of smoke that twisted in the wind. He was dressed, strangely, in a soldier’s uniform—Sadeas’s livery, with the coat unbuttoned and a colored scarf around his neck.

The traveler. The one they called the King’s Wit. Angular features, a sharp nose, hair that was stark black.

He was here.

“There are still stories to tell.” Wit leaped to his feet. Few people were paying attention. To them, he was just another busker. “Everyone knows that Mishim is the cleverest of the three moons. Though her sister and brother are content to reign in the sky—gracing the lands below with their light—Mishim is always looking for a chance to escape her duty.”

Wit tossed something into the brazier, producing a bright green puff of smoke the color of Mishim, the third and slowest of the moons.

“This story takes place during the days of Tsa,” Wit continued. “The grandest queen of Natanatan, before that kingdom’s fall. Blessed with grand poise and beauty, the Natan people were famous across all of Roshar. Why, if you’d lived back then, you’d have viewed the east as a place of great culture, not an empty wasteland!

“Queen Tsa, as you’ve doubtless heard, was an architect. She designed high towers for her city, built to reach ever upward, grasping toward the sky. One night, Tsa rested in her greatest tower, enjoying the view. So it was that Mishim, that clever moon, happened to pass in the sky close by. (It was a night when the moons were large, and these—everyone knows—are nights when the moons pay special attention to the actions of mortals.)

“ ‘Great Queen!’ Mishim called. ‘You build such fine towers in your grand city. I enjoy viewing them each night as I pass.’ ”

Wit dropped powder into the brazier, this time in clumps that caused two lines of smoke—one white, one green—to stream upward. Shallan stepped forward, watching the smoke curl. The marketgoers slowed, and began to gather.

“Now,” Wit said, thrusting his hands into the smoke lines, twisting them so that the smoke swirled and contorted, giving the sense of a green moon spinning in the center, “Queen Tsa was hardly ignorant of Mishim’s crafty ways. The Natans were never fond of Mishim, but rather revered the great Nomon.

“Still, one does not ignore a moon. ‘Thank you, Great Celestial One,’ Tsa called. ‘Our engineers labor ceaselessly to erect the most splendid of mortal accomplishments.’

“ ‘Almost they reach to my domain,’ Mishim called. ‘One wonders if you are trying to obtain it.’

“ ‘Never, Great Celestial One. My domain is this land, and the sky is yours.’ ”

Wit thrust his hand high in his smoke, drawing the line of white into the shape of a straight pillar. His other hand swirled a pocket of green above it, like a whirlpool. A tower and a moon.

That can’t be natural, can it? Shallan thought. Is he Lightweaving? Yet she saw no Stormlight. There was something more … organic about what he did. She couldn’t be completely certain it was supernatural.

“As always, Mishim was hatching a scheme. She loathed being hung in the sky each night, far from the delights of the world below, and the pleasures that only mortals know. The next night, Mishim again passed Queen Tsa in her tower. ‘It is a pity,’ Mishim said, ‘that you cannot see the constellations from up close. For they are truly beautiful gemstones, shaped by the finest of gem cutters.’

“ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa said. ‘But all know that the eyes of a mortal would burn to see such a lofty sight.’

“On the next night, Mishim tried again. ‘It is a pity,’ she said, ‘that you cannot converse with the starspren, as they tell delightsome stories.’

“ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa agreed. ‘But everyone knows that the language of the heavens would drive a mortal mad.’

“The next night, Mishim tried a third time. ‘It is a pity that you cannot see the beauty of your kingdom from above. For the pillars and domes of your city are radiant.’

“ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa agreed. ‘But those sights are meant for the great ones of heaven, and to behold them myself would be blasphemous.’ ”

Wit dropped another powder into the brazier, bringing up yellow-gold smoke. By now, dozens of people had gathered to watch. He swept his hands to the sides, sending the smoke spraying out in a flat plane. Then it crept upward again in lines—forming towers. A city?

He continued to swirl with one hand, drawing the green smoke up into a ring that—with a thrust of his hand—he sent spinning across the top of the yellow-golden city. It was remarkable, and Shallan found her jaw dropping. This was an image that lived.

Wit glanced to the side, where he’d put his pack. He started, as if surprised. Shallan cocked her head as he quickly recovered, jumping back into the story so fast that it was easy to miss his lapse. But now, as he spoke, he searched the audience with careful eyes.

“Mishim,” he said, “was not finished. The queen was pious, but the moon was crafty. I will leave it to you to decide which is the more powerful. The fourth night, as Mishim passed the queen, she tried a different ploy.

“ ‘Yes,’ Mishim said, ‘your city is grand, as only a god can see from above. That is why it is so, so sad that one of the towers has a flawed roof.’ ”

Wit swept to the side, destroying the lines of smoke that made up the city. He let the smoke dwindle, the powders he’d thrown running out, all save the line of green.

“ ‘What?’ Tsa said. ‘A flawed tower? Which one?’

“ ‘It is but a minor blemish,’ Mishim said. ‘Do not let it worry you. I appreciate the effort your craftsmen, however incompetent, put into their work.’ She continued on her way, but knew that she had trapped the queen.

“Indeed, on the next night, the beautiful queen stood waiting on her balcony. ‘Great One of the Heavens!’ Tsa called. ‘We have inspected the roofs, and cannot find the imperfection! Please, please tell me which tower it is, so I can break it down.’

“ ‘I cannot say,’ Mishim said. ‘To be mortal is to be flawed; it is not right to expect perfection of you.’

“This only made the queen more worried. On the next night, she asked, ‘Great One of the Sky, is there a way that I could visit the heavens? I will close my ears to the stories of the starspren and turn my eyes away from the constellations. I would look only upon the flawed works of my people, not the sights meant for you, so that I may see with my own eyes what must be fixed.’

“ ‘It is a forbidden thing that you ask,’ Mishim said, ‘for we would have to trade places, and hope that Nomon does not notice.’ She said it with much glee, though hidden, for this request was the very thing she desired.

“ ‘I will feign that I am you,’ Tsa promised. ‘And I will do all that you do. We will switch back once I am done, and Nomon will never know.’ ”

Wit grinned broadly. “And so, the moon and the woman traded places.” His raw enthusiasm for the story was infectious, and Shallan found herself smiling.

They were at war, the city was falling, but all she wanted to do was listen to the end of this story.

Wit used powders to send up four different smoke lines—blue, yellow, green, and intense orange. He swirled them together in a transfixing vortex of hues. And as he worked, his blue eyes fell on Shallan. They narrowed, and his smile became sly.

He just recognized me, she realized. I’m still wearing Veil’s face. But how … how did he know?

When he finished his swirling colors, the moon had become white, and the single straight tower he made by swiping up in the smoke was instead pale green.

“Mishim came down among the mortals,” he proclaimed, “and Tsa climbed the heavens to sit in the place of the moon! Mishim spent the remaining hours of the night drinking, and courting, and dancing, and singing, and doing all the things she had watched from afar. She lived frantically during her few hours of freedom.

“In fact, she was so captivated that she forgot to return, and was shocked by the dawning of sunlight! She hurriedly climbed to the queen’s high tower, but Tsa had already set, and the night had passed.

“Mishim now knew not only the delights of mortality, but the anxiety as well. She passed the day in great disquiet, knowing that Tsa would be trapped with her wise sister and solemn brother, spending the day in the place where moons rest. When night again came, Mishim hid inside the tower, expecting that Salas would call out and chide her for her appetites. Yet Salas passed without comment.

“Surely, when Nomon rose, he would lash out against her foolishness. Yet Nomon passed without comment. Finally, Tsa rose in the sky, and Mishim called to her. ‘Queen Tsa, mortal, what has happened? My siblings did not call to me. Did you somehow go undiscovered?’

“ ‘No,’ Tsa replied. ‘Your siblings knew me as an impostor immediately.’

“ ‘Then let us trade places quickly!’ Mishim said. ‘So that I may tell them lies and placate them.’

“ ‘They are placated already,’ Tsa said. ‘They think I am delightful. We spent the daylight hours feasting.’

“ ‘Feasting?’ Her siblings had never feasted with her before.

“ ‘We sang sweet songs together.’

“ ‘Songs?’ Her siblings had never sung with her before.

“ ‘It is truly wonderful up here,’ Tsa said. ‘The starspren tell amazing tales, as you promised, and the gemstone constellations are grand from up close.’

“ ‘Yes. I love those stories, and those sights.’

“ ‘I think,’ Tsa said, ‘that I might stay.’ ”

Wit let the smoke fail until only a single line of green remained. It shrank down, dwindling, almost out. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“Mishim,” he said, “now knew another mortal emotion. Loss.

“The moon began to panic! She thought of her grand view from up so high, where she could see all lands and enjoy—if from afar—their art, buildings, and songs! She remembered the kindness of Nomon and the thoughtfulness of Salas!”

Wit made a swirl of white smoke, and pushed it slowly to his left, the new moon Tsa close to setting.

“ ‘Wait!’ Mishim said. ‘Wait, Tsa! Your word is broken! You spoke to the starspren and gazed upon the constellations!’ ”

Wit caught the smoke ring with one hand, somehow making it stay, swirling in one place.

“ ‘Nomon said that I could,’ Tsa explained. ‘And I was not harmed.’

“ ‘You broke your word nonetheless!’ Mishim cried. ‘You must come back to earth, mortal, for our bargain is at an end!’ ”

Wit let the ring hang there.

Then vanish.

“To Mishim’s eternal relief, Tsa relented. The queen climbed back down into her tower, and Mishim scrambled up into the heavens. With great pleasure, she sank toward the horizon. Though just before she set, Mishim heard a song.”

Oddly, Wit added a small line of blue smoke to the brazier.

“It was a song of laughter, of beauty. A song Mishim had never heard! It took her long to understand that song, until months later, she passed in the sky at night and saw the queen in the tower again. Holding a child with skin that was faintly blue.

“They did not speak, but Mishim knew. The queen had tricked her. Tsa had wanted to spend one day in the heavens, to know Nomon for a night. She had given birth to a son with pale blue skin, the color of Nomon himself. A son born of the gods, who would lead her people to glory. A son who bore the mantle of the heavens.

“And that is why to this day, the people of Natanatan have skin of a faintly blue shade. And it is why Mishim, though still crafty, has never again left her place. Most importantly, it is the story of how the moon came to know the one thing that before, only mortals had known. Loss.”

The last line of blue smoke dwindled, then went out.

Wit didn’t bow for applause or ask for tips. He sat back down on the cistern wall that had been his stage, looking exhausted. People waited, stunned, until a few started yelling for more. Wit remained silent. He bore their requests, their pleas, then their curses.

Slowly, the audience drifted away.

Eventually, only Shallan stood before him.

Wit smiled at her.

“Why that story?” she asked. “Why now?”

“I don’t give the meanings, child,” he said. “You should know that by now. I just tell the tale.”

“It was beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he added, “I miss my flute.”

“Your what?”

He hopped up and began gathering his things. Shallan slipped forward and glanced inside his pack, catching sight of a small jar, sealed at the top. It was mostly black, but the side pointed toward her was instead white.

Wit snapped the pack closed. “Come. You look like you could use the opportunity to buy me something to eat.”

68. Aim for the Sun

Wit led Shallan to a squat tavern that was so grown over with crem, it gave the impression of having been molded from clay. Inside, a fabrial ceiling fan hung motionless; starting it up would have drawn the attention of the strange screaming spren.

Despite the large signs outside offering chouta for sale, the place was empty. The prices raised Shallan’s eyebrows, but the scents emanating from the kitchen were inviting. The innkeeper was a short, heavyset Alethi man with a paunch so thick he looked like a big chull egg. He scowled as Wit entered.

“You!” he said, pointing. “Storyteller! You were supposed to draw customers here! The place would be full, you said!”

“My tyrannical liege, I believe you misunderstood.” Wit gave a flowery bow. “I said that you would be full. And you are. Of what, I did not say, as I did not wish to sully my tongue.”

“Where are my patrons, you idiot!”

Wit stepped to the side, holding out his hands toward Shallan. “Behold, mighty and terrible king, I have recruited you a subject.”

The innkeeper squinted at her. “Can she pay?”

“Yes,” Wit said, holding up Shallan’s purse and poking through it. “She’ll probably leave a tip too.”

With a start, Shallan felt at her pocket. Storms, she’d even kept her hand on that purse most of the day.

“Take the private room then,” the innkeeper said. “It’s not like anyone else is using it. Idiot bard. I’ll expect a good performance out of you tonight!”

Wit sighed, tossing Shallan her purse. He seized his pack and brazier, leading her to a chamber beside the main dining room. As he ushered her in, he raised a fist toward the innkeeper. “I’ve had enough of your oppression, tyrant! Secure your wine well this evening, for the revolution will be swift, vengeful, and intoxicated!”

Closing the door behind him, Wit shook his head. “That man really should know better by now. I have no idea why he continues to put up with me.” He set his brazier and pack by the wall, then settled at the room’s dining table, where he leaned back and put his boots up on the seat next to him.

Shallan sat at the table more delicately, Pattern slipping off her coat and across to dimple the tabletop next to her. Wit didn’t react to the spren.

The room was nice, with painted wood panels set into the walls and rockbuds along a ledge near the small window. The table even had a yellow silk tablecloth. The room was obviously meant for lighteyes to enjoy private dining, while unsavory darkeyes ate out in the main chamber.

“That’s a nice illusion,” Wit said. “You got the back of the head right. People always flub the back. You’ve broken character though. You’re walking like a prim lighteyes, which looks silly in that costume. You’ll only be able to pull off a coat and hat if you own them.”

“I know,” she said, grimacing. “The persona … fled once you recognized me.”

“Shame about the dark hair. Your natural red would be arresting with the white coat.”

“This guise is supposed to be less memorable than that.”

He glanced at the hat, which she’d set on the table. Shallan blushed. She felt like a girl nervously showing her first drawings to her tutor.

The innkeeper entered with drinks, a mild orange, as it was still early in the day. “Many thanks, my liege,” Wit said. “I vow to compose another song about you. One without so many references to the things you’ve mistaken for young maidens…”

“Storming idiot,” the man said. He set the drinks on the table, and didn’t notice that Pattern rippled out from under one. The innkeeper bustled out, closing the door.

“Are you one of them?” Shallan blurted out. “Are you a Herald, Wit?”

Pattern hummed softly.

“Heavens no,” Wit said. “I’m not stupid enough to get mixed up in religion again. The last seven times I tried it were all disasters. I believe there’s at least one god still worshipping me by accident.”

She eyed him. It was always hard to tell which of Wit’s exaggerations were supposed to mean something and which were confusing distractions. “Then what are you?”

“Some men, as they age, grow kinder. I am not one of those, for I have seen how the cosmere can mistreat the innocent—and that leaves me disinclined toward kindness. Some men, as they age, grow wiser. I am not one of those, for wisdom and I have always been at cross-purposes, and I have yet to learn the tongue in which she speaks. Some men, as they age, grow more cynical. I, fortunately, am not one of those. If I were, the very air would warp around me, sucking in all emotion, leaving only scorn.”

He tapped the table. “Other men … other men, as they age, merely grow stranger. I fear that I am one of those. I am the bones of a foreign species left drying on the plain that was once, long ago, a sea. A curiosity, perhaps a reminder, that all has not always been as it is now.”

“You’re … old, aren’t you? Not a Herald, but as old as they are?”

He slid his boots off the chair and leaned forward, holding her eyes. He smiled in a kindly way. “Child, when they were but babes, I had already lived dozens of lifetimes. ‘Old’ is a word you use for worn shoes. I’m something else entirely.”

She trembled, looking into those blue eyes. Shadows played within them. Shapes moved, and were worn down by time. Boulders became dust. Mountains became hills. Rivers changed course. Seas became deserts.

“Storms,” she whispered.

“When I was young…” he said.

“Yes?”

“I made a vow.”

Shallan nodded, wide-eyed.

“I said I’d always be there when I was needed.”

“And you have been?”

“Yes.”

She breathed out.

“It turns out I should have been more specific, as ‘there’ is technically anywhere.”

“It … what?”

“To be honest, ‘there’ has—so far—been a random location that is of absolutely no use to anyone.”

Shallan hesitated. In an instant, whatever she seemed to have sensed in Wit was gone. She flopped back in her seat. “Why am I talking to you of all people?”

“Shallan!” he said, aghast. “If you were talking to someone else, they wouldn’t be me.”

“I happen to know plenty of people who aren’t you, Wit. I even like some of them.”

“Be careful. People who aren’t me are prone to spontaneous bouts of sincerity.”

“Which is bad?”

“Of course! ‘Sincerity’ is a word people use to justify their chronic dullness.”

“Well, I like sincere people,” Shallan said, raising her cup. “It’s delightful how surprised they look when you push them down the stairs.”

“Now, that’s unkind. You shouldn’t push people down the stairs for being sincere. You push people down the stairs for being stupid.”

“What if they’re sincere and stupid?”

“Then you run.”

“I quite like arguing with them instead. They do make me look smart, and Vev knows I need the help.…”

“No, no. You should never debate an idiot, Shallan. No more than you’d use your best sword to spread butter.”

“Oh, but I’m a scholar. I enjoy things with curious properties, and stupidity is most interesting. The more you study it, the further it flees—and yet the more of it you obtain, the less you understand about it!”

Wit sipped his drink. “True, to an extent. But it can be hard to spot, as—like body odor—you never notice your own. That said … put two smart people together, and they will eventually find their common stupidity, and in so doing become idiots.”

“Like a child, it grows the more you feed it.”

“Like a fashionable dress, it can be fetching in youth, but looks particularly bad on the aged. And unique though its properties may be, stupidity is frighteningly common. The sum total of stupid people is somewhere around the population of the planet. Plus one.”

“Plus one?” Shallan asked.

“Sadeas counts twice.”

“Um … he’s dead, Wit.”

“What?” Wit sat up straight.

“Someone murdered him. Er … we don’t know who.” Aladar’s investigators had continued hunting the culprit, but the investigation had stalled by the time Shallan left.

“Someone offed old Sadeas, and I missed it?”

“What would you have done? Helped him?”

“Storms, no. I’d have applauded.”

Shallan grinned and let out a deep sigh. Her hair had reverted to red—she’d let the illusion lapse. “Wit,” she said, “why are you here? In the city?”

“I’m not completely sure.”

“Please. Could you just answer?”

“I did—and I was honest. I can know where I’m supposed to be, Shallan, but not always what I’m supposed to do there.” He tapped the table. “Why are you here?”

“To open the Oathgate,” Shallan said. “Save the city.”

Pattern hummed.

“Lofty goals,” Wit said.

“What’s the point of goals, if not to spur you to something lofty?”

“Yes, yes. Aim for the sun. That way if you miss, at least your arrow will fall far away, and the person it kills will likely be someone you don’t know.”

The innkeeper chose that moment to arrive with some food. Shallan didn’t feel particularly hungry; seeing all those starving people outside had stolen her appetite.

The small plates held crumbly cakes of Soulcast grain topped with a single steamed cremling—a variety known as a skrip, with a flat tail, two large claws, and long antennae. Eating cremlings wasn’t uncommon, but it wasn’t particularly fine dining.

The only difference between Shallan’s meal and Wit’s was the sauce—hers sweet, his spicy, though his had the sauce in a cup at the side. Food supplies were tight, and the kitchen wasn’t preparing both masculine and feminine dishes.

The innkeeper frowned at her hair, then shook his head and left. She got the impression he was accustomed to oddities around Wit.

Shallan looked down at her food. Could she give this to someone else? Someone who deserved it more than she did?

“Eat up,” Wit said, rising and walking to the small window. “Don’t waste what you’re given.”

Reluctantly, she did as he instructed. It wasn’t particularly good, but it wasn’t terrible. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“I’m smart enough not to follow my own advice, thank you very much.” He sounded distracted. Outside the window, a procession from the Cult of Moments was passing.

“I want to learn to be like you,” Shallan said, feeling silly as she said it.

“No you don’t.”

“You’re funny, and charming, and—”

“Yes, yes. I’m so storming clever that half the time, even I can’t follow what I’m talking about.”

“—and you change things, Wit. When you came to me, in Jah Keved, you changed everything. I want to be able to do that. I want to be able to change the world.”

He didn’t seem at all interested in his food. Does he eat? she wondered. Or is he … like some kind of spren?

“Who came with you to the city?” he asked her.

“Kaladin. Adolin. Elhokar. Some of our servants.”

“King Elhokar? Here?”

“He’s determined to save the city.”

“Most days, Elhokar has trouble saving face, let alone cities.”

“I like him,” Shallan said. “Despite his … Elhokarness.”

“He does grow on you, I suppose. Like a fungus.”

“He really wants to do what is right. You should hear him talk about it lately. He wants to be remembered as a good king.”

“Vanity.”

“You don’t care about how you’ll be remembered?”

“I’ll remember myself, which is enough. Elhokar though, he worries about the wrong things. His father wore a simple crown because he needed no reminder of his authority. Elhokar wears a simple crown because he worries that something more lavish might make people look at it, instead of at him. He doesn’t want the competition.”

Wit turned away from his inspection of the hearth and chimney. “You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.”

“I’m a Radiant,” Shallan said, shoving another forkful of crumbly, sweet bread into her mouth. “Saving the world is in the job description.”

“Then be wise about it. There are two kinds of important men, Shallan. There are those who, when the boulder of time rolls toward them, stand up in front of it and hold out their hands. All their lives, they’ve been told how great they are. They assume the world itself will bend to their whims as their nurse did when fetching them a fresh cup of milk.

“Those men end up squished.

“Other men stand to the side when the boulder of time passes, but are quick to say, ‘See what I did! I made the boulder roll there. Don’t make me do it again!’

“These men end up getting everyone else squished.”

“Is there not a third type of person?”

“There is, but they are oh so rare. These know they can’t stop the boulder. So they walk beside it, study it, and bide their time. Then they shove it—ever so slightly—to create a deviation in its path.

“These are the men … well, these are the men who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.”

Shallan frowned, then looked at her empty plate. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating …

Wit walked past and deftly lifted her plate away, then swapped it with his full one.

“Wit … I can’t eat that.”

“Don’t be persnickety,” he said. “How are you going to save the world if you starve yourself?”

“I’m not starving myself.” But she took a little bite to satisfy him. “You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.”

“Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.” He turned and studied her. “What is power to you, Shallan?”

“It’s…” Shallan cut at the cremling, separating it from its shell. “It’s what I said earlier—the ability to change things.”

“Things?”

“Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.”

“And yourself too, of course.”

“I don’t matter.”

“You should.”

“Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.”

“Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.”

“You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.”

“I like to live every day like it’s my last.”

Shallan nodded.

“And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.”

She almost choked on a bite of cremling. Her cup was empty, but Wit walked past and put his in her hand. She gulped it down.

“Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…”

“The Cult of Moments. They reportedly claim to see a transformed world coming upon us.”

“Be wary of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”

“Except you, of course. Didn’t you say you can see where you need to be?”

“Be wary,” he repeated, “of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”

Pattern rippled on the table, not humming, only changing more quickly, forming new shapes in a rapid sequence. Shallan swallowed. To her surprise, her plate was empty again. “The cult has control of the Oathgate platform,” she said. “Do you know what they do up there every night?”

“They feast,” Wit said softly, “and party. There are two general divisions among them. The common members wander the streets, moaning, pretending to be spren. But others up on the platform actually know the spren—specifically, the creature known as the Heart of the Revel.”

“One of the Unmade.”

Wit nodded. “A dangerous foe, Shallan. The cult reminds me of a group I knew long ago. Equally dangerous, equally foolish.”

“Elhokar wants me to infiltrate them. Get onto that platform and activate the Oathgate. Is it possible?”

“Perhaps.” Wit settled back. “Perhaps. I can’t make the gate work; the spren of the fabrial won’t obey me. You have the proper key, and the cult takes new members eagerly. Consumes them, like a fire needing new logs.”

“How? What do I do?”

“Food,” he said. “Their proximity to the Heart drives them to feast and celebrate.”

“Drinking in life?” she said, quoting his sentiment from earlier.

“No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal. Yet their feasting does give you an opening. I’ve brushed against their leaders—despite my best efforts. Bring them food for the revel, and I can get you in. A warning, however, simple Soulcast grain won’t satisfy them.”

A challenge, then. “I should get back to the others.” She looked up to Wit. “Would you … come with me? Join us?”

He stood, then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it. “Unfortunately, Shallan,” he said, glancing at her, “you’re not why I am here.”

She took a deep breath. “I am going to learn how to change the world, Wit.”

“You already know how. Learn why.” He stepped back from the door and pressed himself against the wall. “Also, tell the innkeeper I disappeared in a puff of smoke. It will drive him crazy.”

“The inn—”

The door opened suddenly, swinging inward. The innkeeper entered, and hesitated as he found Shallan sitting alone at the table. Wit slipped deftly around the door and out behind the man, who didn’t notice.

“Damnation,” the innkeeper said, searching around. “I don’t suppose he’s going to work tonight?”

“I have no idea.”

“He said he’d treat me like a king.”

“Well, he’s keeping that promise…”

The innkeeper took the plates, then bustled out. Conversations with Wit had a way of ending in an odd manner. And, well, starting in an odd manner. Odd all around.

“Do you know anything about Wit?” she asked Pattern.

“No,” Pattern said. “He feels like … mmm … one of us.”

Shallan fished in her pouch for some spheres—Wit had stolen a few, she noted—as a tip for the poor innkeeper. Then she made her way back to the tailor’s shop, planning how to use her team to get the requisite food.

69. Free Meal, No Strings

Kaladin drew in a small amount of Stormlight and stoked the tempest within. That little storm raged inside him, rising from his skin, haunting the space behind his eyes and making them glow. Fortunately—though he stood in a busy market square—this tiny amount of Stormlight wouldn’t be enough for people to see in the bright sunlight.

The storm was a primal dance, an ancient song, an eternal battle that had raged since Roshar was new. It wanted to be used. He acquiesced, kneeling to infuse a small stone. He Lashed it upward just enough to make it tremble, but not enough to send it zipping into the air.

The eerie screams came soon after. People started to shout in panic. Kaladin ducked away, exhaling his Stormlight and becoming—hopefully—merely another bystander. He crouched with Shallan and Adolin behind a planter. This plaza—with pillared archways on all four sides, sheltering what had once been a great variety of shops—was several blocks away from the tailor’s shop.

People squeezed into buildings or slipped out onto other streets. The slow ones simply huddled down beside the walls, hands over their heads. The spren arrived as two lines of bright yellow-white, twisting about one another above the plaza. Their inhuman screeches were awful. Like … like the sound of a wounded animal, dying alone in the wilderness.

Those weren’t the spren he’d seen while traveling with Sah and the other parshmen. That one had seemed more akin to a windspren; these looked like vivid yellow spheres crackling with energy. They didn’t seem to be able to pinpoint the rock directly, and spun over the courtyard as if confused, still screaming.

A short time later, a figure descended from the sky. A Voidbringer in loose red and black clothing that rippled and churned in the breeze. He carried a spear and a tall, triangular shield.

That spear, Kaladin thought. Long, with a slender point for puncturing armor, it was like a horseman’s lance. He found himself nodding. That would be an excellent weapon for using in flight, where you’d need extra reach to attack men on the ground, or even enemies soaring around you.

The spren ceased screaming. The Voidbringer looked about, fluttering through the air, then glared at the spren and said something. Again, they seemed confused. They’d sensed Kaladin’s use of Stormlight—likely interpreted it as a fabrial being used—but now couldn’t pinpoint the location. Kaladin had used such a small amount of Stormlight, the rock had lost its charge almost immediately.

The spren dispersed, vanishing as emotion spren often did. The Voidbringer lingered, surrounded by dark energy, until horns nearby announced the Wall Guard approaching. The creature finally shot back into the air. People who had been hiding scuttled away, looking relieved to have escaped with their lives.

“Huh,” Adolin said, standing. He wore an illusion, imitating—as per Elhokar’s instructions—Captainlord Meleran Khal, Teshav’s youngest son, a powerfully built balding man in his thirties.

“I can hold Stormlight as long as I want without drawing attention,” Kaladin said. “The moment I Lash something, they come screaming.”

“And yet,” Adolin said, glancing at Shallan, “the disguises draw no attention.”

“Pattern says we’re quieter than him,” Shallan said, thumbing toward Kaladin. “Come on, let’s get back. Don’t you boys have an appointment tonight?”

“A party,” Kaladin said, pacing back and forth in the tailor shop’s showroom. Skar and Drehy leaned by the doorway, each with a spear in the crook of his arm.

“This is what they’re like,” Kaladin said. “Your city is practically burning. What should you do? Throw a party, obviously.”

Elhokar had suggested parties as a way of contacting the city’s lighteyed families. Kaladin had laughed at the idea, assuming that there wouldn’t be such a thing. Yet, with minimal searching, Adolin had scrounged up half a dozen invitations.

“Good darkeyed people slave away, growing and preparing food,” Kaladin said. “But the lighteyes? They have so much storming time they have to make up things to do.”

“Hey Skar,” Drehy said. “You ever go out drinking, even when at war?”

“Sure,” Skar said. “And back in my village, we’d have a dance in the stormshelter twice a month, even while boys were off fighting in border skirmishes.”

“It’s not the same,” Kaladin said. “You taking their side?”

“Are there sides?” Drehy asked.

A few minutes later, Adolin came tromping down the stairs and grinning like a fool. He was wearing a ruffled shirt under a powder-blue suit with a jacket that didn’t close all the way and tails at the back. Its golden embroidery was the finest the shop could provide.

“Please tell me,” Kaladin said, “that you didn’t bring us to live with your tailor because you wanted a new wardrobe.”

“Come on, Kal,” Adolin said, inspecting himself in a showroom mirror. “I need to look the part.” He checked his cuffs and grinned again.

Yokska came out and looked him over, then dusted his shoulders. “I think it pulls too tightly through the chest, Brightlord.”

“It’s wonderful, Yokska.”

“Take a deep breath.”

It was like she was a storming surgeon, the way she lifted his arm and felt at his waist, muttering to herself. Kaladin had seen his father give physicals that were less invasive.

“I thought that straight coats were still the style,” Adolin said. “I have a folio out of Liafor.”

“Those aren’t up to date,” Yokska said. “I was in Liafor last Midpeace, and they’re moving away from military styles. But they made those folios to sell uniforms at the Shattered Plains.”

“Storms! I had no idea how unfashionable I was being.”

Kaladin rolled his eyes. Adolin saw that in the mirror, but just turned around, giving a bow. “Don’t worry, bridgeboy. You can continue to wear clothing to match your scowl.”

“You look like you tripped and fell into a bucket of blue paint,” Kaladin said, “then tried to dry off with a handful of parched grass.”

“And you look like what the storm leaves behind,” Adolin said, passing by and patting Kaladin on the shoulder. “We like you anyway. Every boy has a favorite stick he found out in the yard after the rains.”

Adolin stepped over to Skar and Drehy, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “You two looking forward to tonight?”

“Depends on how the food is in the darkeyed tent, sir,” Skar said.

“Swipe me something from the inner party,” Drehy said. “I hear they’ve got storming good pastries at those fancy lighteyes parties.”

“Sure. You need anything, Skar?”

“The head of my enemy, fashioned into a tankard for drinking,” Skar said. “Barring that, I’ll take a pastry or seven.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Keep your ears open for any good taverns that are still open. We can go out tomorrow.” He strode past Kaladin and tied on a side sword.

Kaladin frowned, looking to him, then to his bridgemen, then back at Adolin. “What?”

“What what?” Adolin asked.

“You’re going to go out drinking with bridgemen?” Kaladin said.

“Sure,” Adolin said. “Skar, Drehy, and I go way back.”

“We spent some time keeping His Highness from falling into chasms,” Skar said. “He repaid us with a bit of wine and good conversation.”

The king entered, wearing a more muted version of the same style of uniform. He bustled past Adolin, heading toward the stairs. “Ready? Excellent. Time for new faces.”

The three stopped by Shallan’s room, where she was sketching and humming to herself, surrounded by creationspren. She gave Adolin a kiss that was more intimate than Kaladin had seen from the two of them before, then changed him back into Meleran Khal. Elhokar became an older man, also bald, with pale yellow eyes. General Khal, one of Dalinar’s highest officers.

“I’m fine,” Kaladin said as she eyed him. “Nobody is going to recognize me.”

He wasn’t sure what it was, but wearing another face like that … to him it felt like lying.

“The scars,” Elhokar said. “We need you not to stand out, Captain.”

Reluctantly, Kaladin nodded, and allowed Shallan to add a Lightweaving to his head to make the slave brands vanish. Then, she handed each of them a sphere. The illusions were tied to the Stormlight inside of those—if the sphere ran out, their false faces would vanish.

The group set out, Skar and Drehy joining them, spears at the ready. Syl flitted out from an upper window of the shop, soaring on ahead of them along the street. Kaladin had tested summoning her as a Blade earlier, and that hadn’t drawn the screamers, so he felt well-armed.

Adolin immediately started joking with Skar and Drehy. Dalinar wouldn’t have liked to hear they’d gone out drinking. Not because of any specific prejudice, but there was a command structure to an army. Generals weren’t supposed to fraternize with the rank and file; it threw wrinkles into how armies worked.

Adolin could get away with things like that. As he listened, Kaladin found himself feeling ashamed of his earlier attitude. The truth was, he was feeling pretty good these days. Yes, there was a war, and yes, the city was seriously stressed—but ever since he’d found his parents alive and well, he’d been feeling better.

That wasn’t so uncommon a feeling for him. He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be.

Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?

It was nearing evening, maybe two hours from sunset. They passed several plazas like the one where they’d tested his Surgebinding. Most had been turned into living space, with people crowding in. Just sitting and waiting for whatever would happen next.

Kaladin trailed a little behind the others, and when Adolin noticed, he excused himself from the conversation and dropped back. “Hey,” he said. “You all right?”

“I’m worried that summoning a Shardblade would make me stand out too much,” Kaladin said. “I should have brought a spear tonight.”

“Maybe you should let me teach you how to use a side sword. You’re pretending to be head of our bodyguards tonight, and you’re lighteyed today. It looks strange for you to walk around without a side sword.”

“Maybe I’m one of those punchy guys.”

Adolin stopped in place and grinned at Kaladin. “Did you just say ‘punchy guys’?”

“You know, ardents who train to fight unarmed.”

“Hand to hand?”

“Hand to hand.”

“Right,” Adolin said. “Or ‘punchy guys,’ as everyone calls them.”

Kaladin met his eyes, then found himself grinning back. “It’s the academic term.”

“Sure. Like swordy fellows. Or spearish chaps.”

“I once knew a real axalacious bloke,” Kaladin said. “He was great at psychological fights.”

“Psychological fights?”

“He could really get inside someone’s head.”

Adolin frowned as they walked. “Get inside … Oh!” Adolin chuckled, slapping Kaladin on the back. “You talk like a girl sometimes. Um … I mean that as a compliment.”

“Thanks?”

“But you do need to practice the sword more,” Adolin said, growing excited. “I know you like the spear, and you’re good with it. Great! But you’re not simply a spearman anymore; you’re going to be an irregular. You won’t be fighting in a line, holding a shield for your buddies. Who knows what you’ll be facing?”

“I trained a little with Zahel,” Kaladin said. “I’m not completely useless with a sword. But … part of me doesn’t see the point.”

“You’ll be better if you practice with a sword, trust me. Being a good duelist is about knowing one weapon, and being a good foot soldier—that’s probably more about training than it is about any single weapon. But you want to be a great warrior? For that you need to be able to use the best tool for the job. Even if you’re never going to use a sword, you’ll fight people who do. The best way to learn how to defeat someone wielding a weapon is to practice with it yourself.”

Kaladin nodded. He was right. It was strange to look at Adolin in that bright outfit, stylish and glittering with golden thread, and hear him speak real battle sense.

When I was imprisoned for daring to accuse Amaram, he was the only lighteyes who stood up for me.

Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.

Their destination was a modest home, by lighteyed standard. Tall and narrow, at four stories high it could have housed a dozen darkeyed families.

“All right,” Elhokar said as they drew near. “Adolin and I will feel out the lighteyes for potential allies. Bridgemen, chat with those in the darkeyed guard tent, and see if you can discover anything about the Cult of Moments, or other oddities in the city.”

“Got it, Your Majesty,” Drehy said.

“Captain,” he said to Kaladin, “you’ll go to the lighteyed guard tent. See if you can—”

“—find out anything about this Highmarshal Azure person,” Kaladin said. “From the Wall Guard.”

“Yes. We will plan to stay relatively late, as intoxicated party guests might share more than sober ones.”

They broke, Adolin and Elhokar presenting invitations to the doorman, who let them in—then gestured Drehy and Skar toward the darkeyed guards’ feast, happening in a tent set up on the grounds.

There was a separate tent for people who were lighteyed but not landowners. Privileged, but not good enough to get in the doors to the actual party. In his role as a lighteyed bodyguard, that would be the place for Kaladin—but for some reason the thought of going in there made him feel sick.

Instead he whispered to Skar and Drehy—promising to be back soon—and borrowed Skar’s spear, just in case. Then Kaladin left, walking the block. He’d return to do as told by Elhokar. But while there was enough light, he thought he’d maybe survey the wall and see if he could get an idea of the Wall Guard’s numbers.

More, he wanted to walk a little longer. He strolled to the foot of the nearby city wall, counting guard posts on top, looking at the large lower portion that was a natural part of the local rock. He rested his hand on the smooth, strata-lined formation of stone.

“Hey!” a voice called. “Hey, you!”

Kaladin sighed. A squad of soldiers from the Wall Guard was patrolling here. They considered this road around the city—next to the foot of the wall—to be their jurisdiction, but they didn’t patrol any farther inward.

What did they want? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, running would only stir up a ruckus, so he dropped his spear and turned around, extending his arms out to the sides. In a city full of refugees, certainly they wouldn’t harass one man too much.

A squad of five tromped over to him, led by a man with a wispy dark beard and bright, light blue eyes. The man took in Kaladin’s uniform, with no insignia, and glanced at the fallen spear. Then he looked at Kaladin’s forehead and frowned.

Kaladin raised his hands to the brands there, which he could feel. But Shallan had put an illusion over those. Hadn’t she?

Damnation. He’s going to assume I’m a deserter.

“Deserter, I assume?” the soldier asked sharply.

Should have just gone to the storming party.

“Look,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want trouble. I just—”

“Do you want a meal?”

“A … meal?”

“Free food for deserters.”

That’s unexpected.

Reluctantly, he lifted the hair from his forehead, testing to see that the brands were still visible. Mostly, the hair prevented one from seeing the details.

The soldiers started visibly. Yes, they could see the brands. Shallan’s illusion had worn off for some reason? Hopefully the other disguises fared better.

“A lighteyes with a shash brand?” their lieutenant asked. “Storms, friend. You’ve got to have some story.” He slapped Kaladin on the back and pointed toward their barracks ahead. “I’d love to hear it. Free meal, no strings. We won’t press you into service. I give my oath.”

Well, he’d wanted information about the leader of the Wall Guard, hadn’t he? What better place to get it than from these men?

Kaladin picked up his spear and let them lead him away.

70. Highmarshal Azure

The Wall Guard’s barracks smelled like home to Kaladin. Not his father’s house—which smelled of antiseptic and the flowers his mother crushed to season the air. His true home. Leather. Boiling stew. Crowded men. Weapon oil.

Spheres hung on the walls, white and blue. The place was big enough to house two platoons, a fact confirmed by the shoulder patches he saw. The large common room was filled with tables, and a few armorers worked in the corner, sewing jerkins or uniforms. Others sharpened weapons, a rhythmic, calming sound. These were the noises and scents of an army well maintained.

The stew didn’t smell anywhere near as good as Rock’s; Kaladin had been spoiled by the Horneater’s cooking. Still, when one of the men went to fetch him a bowl, he found himself smiling. He settled onto a long wooden bench, near a fidgety little ardent who was scribing glyphwards onto pieces of cloth for the men.

Kaladin instantly loved this place, and the state of the men spoke highly of Highmarshal Azure. He would likely be some middling officer who had been thrust into command during the chaos of the riots, which made him all the more impressive. Azure had secured the wall, gotten the parshmen out of the city, and seen to the defense of Kholinar.

Syl zipped around the rafters as soldiers called out questions about the newcomer. The lieutenant who had found him—his name was Noromin, but his men called him Noro—answered readily. Kaladin was a deserter. He had a shash brand, an ugly one. You should see it. Sadeas’s mark. On a lighteyes no less.

The others in the barrack found this curious, but not worrisome. Some even cheered. Storms. Kaladin couldn’t imagine any force of Dalinar’s soldiers being so welcoming of a deserter, let alone a dangerous one.

Considering that, Kaladin now picked out another undercurrent in the room. Men sharpening weapons that had chips in them. Armorers repairing cuts in leather—cuts made by lances in battle. Conspicuously empty seats at most of the tables, with cups set at them.

These men had suffered losses. Not huge ones yet. They could still laugh. But storms, there was a tension to this room.

“So,” Noro said. “Shash brand?”

The rest of the squad settled in, and a short man with hair on the backs of his hands set a bowl of thick stew and flatbread in front of Kaladin. Standard fare, with steamed tallew and cubed meat. Soulcast, of course, and lacking flavor—but hearty and nutritious.

“I had a squabble,” Kaladin said, “with Highlord Amaram. I felt he’d gotten some of my men killed needlessly. He disagreed.”

“Amaram,” said one of the men. “You aim high, friend.”

“I know Amaram,” the man with hairy hands said. “I did secret missions for him, back in my operative days.”

Kaladin looked at him, surprised.

“Best to ignore Beard,” Lieutenant Noro said. “It’s what the rest of us do.”

“Beard” didn’t have a beard. Maybe the hairy hands were enough. He nudged Kaladin. “It’s a good story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”

“You can’t just brand a lighteyed man a slave,” Lieutenant Noro said. “You need a highprince’s permission. There’s more to this story.”

“There is,” Kaladin said. Then he continued eating his stew.

“Oooh,” said a tall member of the squad. “Mystery!”

Noro chuckled, then waved at the room. “So what do you think?”

“You said you weren’t going to press me,” Kaladin said between bites.

“I’m not pressing you, but you won’t find a place out there in the city where you’ll eat as well as you do here.”

“Where do you get it?” Kaladin asked, spooning the stew into his mouth. “You can’t use Soulcasters. The screamers will come after you. Stockpile? I’m surprised one of the highlords in the city hasn’t tried to appropriate it.”

“Astute,” Lieutenant Noro said with a smile. He had a disarming way about him. “That’s a Guard secret. But in here there’s always a stew bubbling and bread baking.”

“It’s my recipe,” Beard added.

“Oh please,” the tall man said. “You’re a cook now too, Beard?”

“A chef, thank you very much. I learned that flatbread recipe from a Horneater mystic at the top of a mountain. The real story is how I got there.…”

“It’s where you landed, obviously,” the tall soldier said, “after someone in your last squad kicked you.”

The men laughed. It felt warm in here, on this long bench, a well-laid fire burning steadily in the corner. Warm and friendly. As Kaladin ate, they gave him some space, chatting among themselves. Noro … he seemed less a soldier and more a chummy merchant trying to sell you earrings for your beloved. He dropped very obvious dangling hints for Kaladin. Reminders of how well-fed they were, of how good it was to be part of a squad. He spoke of warm beds, of how they didn’t have to go on watch duty that often. Of playing cards while the highstorm blew.

Kaladin got a second bowl of stew, and as he settled back into his place, he realized something with a shock.

Storms. They’re all lighteyes, aren’t they?

Every person in the room, from the cook to the armorers, to the soldiers doing dishes. In a group like this, everyone had a secondary duty, like armoring or field surgery. Kaladin hadn’t noticed their eyes. The place had felt so natural, so comfortable, that he’d assumed they were all darkeyed like him.

He knew that most lighteyed soldiers weren’t high officers. He’d been told that they were basically just people—he’d been told it over and over. Somehow, sitting in that room finally made the fact real to him.

“So, Kal…” Lieutenant Noro asked. “What do you think? Maybe reenlist? Give this another try?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll desert?” Kaladin asked. “Or worse, that I can’t control my temper? I might be dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as being short manned,” Beard said. “You know how to kill people? That’s good enough for us.”

Kaladin nodded. “Tell me about your commander. That will be a big part of any group. I only just got into town. Who is this Highmarshal Azure?”

“You can meet him yourself!” Beard said. “He does rounds every night around dinner time, checking on each barracks.”

“Um, yes,” Noro said.

Kaladin eyed him. The lieutenant seemed uncomfortable.

“The highmarshal,” Noro said quickly, “is incredible. We lost our former commander during the riots, and Azure led a group who held the wall when the Cult of Moments tried—in the chaos—to seize the city gates.”

“He fought like a Voidbringer,” another squad member said. “I was there. We were almost overwhelmed, then Azure joined us, holding aloft a gleaming Shardblade. He rallied our numbers, inspired even the wounded to keep fighting. Storms. Felt like we had spren at our backs, holding us up, helping us fight.”

Kaladin narrowed his eyes. “You don’t say…”

He pried more from them as he finished his bowl. They had nothing but praise for Azure, though the man hadn’t displayed any other … odd abilities that Kaladin could discover. Azure was a Shardbearer, maybe a foreigner, who had been previously unknown to the Guard—but with the fall of their commander, and the subsequent disappearance of their highlord patron at the palace, Azure had ended up in command.

There was something else. Something they weren’t saying. Kaladin helped himself to a third bowl of stew, more to delay to see if the highmarshal really would make an appearance or not.

Soon, a disturbance near the door sent men standing up. Kaladin followed suit, turning. A senior officer entered wearing a glittering chain and a bright tabard, accompanied by attendants, inspiring a round of salutes. The highmarshal wore an appropriately azure cloak—a lighter shade than the traditional Kholin blue—with a mail coif down around the neck and a helm carried in hand.

She was also a she.

Kaladin blinked in surprise, and heard a gasp from Syl up above. The highmarshal was of average height for an Alethi woman, maybe just under, and wore her hair straight and short, reaching halfway down her cheeks. Her eyes were orange, and she wore a side sword with a glistening silver basket hilt. That wasn’t Alethi design. Was it the aforementioned Shardblade? It did have an otherworldly look about it, but why wear it instead of dismissing it?

Regardless, the highmarshal was lean and grim, and had a couple of serious scars on her face. She wore gloves on both hands.

“The highmarshal is a woman?” Kaladin hissed.

“We don’t talk about the marshal’s secret,” Beard said.

“Secret?” Kaladin said. “It’s pretty storming obvious.”

“We don’t talk about the marshal’s secret,” Beard repeated, and the others nodded. “Hush, all right?”

Hush about it? Storms. This sort of thing simply didn’t happen in Vorin society. Not like in the ballads and stories. He’d been in three armies, and had never seen a woman holding a weapon. Even the Alethi scouts carried only knives. He’d half expected a riot when he’d armed Lyn and the others, although for Radiants, Jasnah and Shallan had already supplied precedent.

Azure told the men they could sit down. One of the men offered her a bowl of stew, and she accepted. The men cheered after she took a bite and complimented the cook.

She handed the bowl to one of her attendants, and things returned to normal—men chatting, working, eating. Azure walked to speak with the various officers. First the platoon leader, who would be a captain. The other lieutenants next.

When she stopped at their table, she took in Kaladin with a discerning gaze.

“Who’s the new recruit, Lieutenant Noro?” she asked.

“This is Kal, sir!” Noro said. “Found him haunting the street outside. Deserter, with a shash brand.”

“On a lighteyes? Storms, man. Who did you kill?”

“It’s not the one that I killed that got me my brands, sir. It’s the one I didn’t kill.”

“That has the sound of a practiced explanation, soldier.”

“That’s because it is.”

Kaladin figured she, at last, would push for more information. She merely grunted. He couldn’t place her age, though the scars probably made her look older than she really was.

“You joining up?” she said. “We have food for you.”

“Frankly, sir, I don’t know. On one hand, I can’t believe nobody cares about my past. On the other, you’re obviously desperate, which also makes me reluctant.”

She turned toward Lieutenant Noro. “You haven’t shown him?”

“No, sir. We just got some stew in him.”

“I’ll do it. Kal, come with me.”

Whatever they wanted to show him was at the top of the wall, as they hiked him up an enclosed stone stairwell. Kaladin wanted to learn more about the supposed “secret” that Azure was a woman. But when he asked, Lieutenant Noro shook his head quickly and made a hushing motion.

Soon they’d assembled atop the fortifications. The Kholinar wall was a powerful defensive structure, reportedly over sixty feet tall at points, with a wide wall walk on the top, ten feet across. The wall rolled across the landscape, enclosing all of Kholinar. It had actually been built on top of the outer windblades, fitting onto them like an inverted crown, the raised portions matching crevasses between windblades.

The wall was interrupted by guard towers every three hundred feet or so. These large structures were big enough to house squads, perhaps entire platoons, on watch.

“Guessing from that brand,” Azure said to him, “you were in one of the armies that recruits in the north. You joined up to fight on the Shattered Plains, didn’t you? But Sadeas used that army up north to funnel him veterans, plus maybe seize some land now and then from rival highprinces. You ended up fighting other Alethi, scared farmboys, instead of shipping off to avenge the king. Something like that?”

“Something like that,” Kaladin admitted.

“Damnation me if I blame a man for deserting that,” Azure said. “I don’t hold it against you, soldier.”

“And the brand?”

Azure pointed northward. Night had finally fallen, and in the distance, Kaladin could see a glow.

“They advance back into place after each storm,” Azure said softly. “And camp a portion of their army out there. That’s good battle sense, to prevent us from being resupplied—and to make sure we don’t know when they’ll attack. Nightmares, Kal. A real Voidbringer army.

“If that were an Alethi force, the people in this city wouldn’t have much to worry about. Sure, there would be casualties on the wall, but no would-be king of Alethkar is going to burn and pillage the capital. But those aren’t Alethi. They’re monsters. At best, they’ll enslave the entire populace. At worst…” She let the thought dangle, then looked at him. “I’m glad you have a brand. It says you’re dangerous, and we have narrow confines up here on the wall. We can’t simply press every eligible man; I need real soldiers, men who know what they’re doing.”

“So that’s why I’m here?” Kaladin asked. “To see that?”

“I want you to think,” Azure said. “I tell the men—this Wall Guard, this is redemption. If you fight here, nobody will care what you did before. Because they know if we fall, this city and this nation will be no more.

“Nothing matters, except holding this wall when that assault comes. You can go hide in the city and pray that we are strong enough without you. But if we aren’t, you’ll be no more than another corpse. Up here, you can fight. Up here, you have a chance.

“We won’t press you. Walk away tonight. Lie down and think about what is coming; imagine another night when men are up here dying, bleeding for you. Think about how powerless you’ll feel if the monsters get in. Then when you come back tomorrow, we’ll get you a Wall Guard patch.”

It was a potent speech. Kaladin glanced to Syl, who landed on his shoulder, then took a long look at the lights on the horizon.

Are you out there, Sah? Did they bring you and the others here? What of Sah’s little daughter, who had collected flowers and clutched playing cards like a treasured toy? Was Khen there, the parshwoman who had demanded Kaladin retain his freedom, despite being angry at him for the entire trip?

Winds send that they hadn’t been dragged further into this mess.

He joined the others in clattering back down the stairwell. Afterward, Noro and the rest of the squad bade him a happy farewell, as if certain he’d return. And he probably would, though not for the reasons they assumed.

He went back to the mansion and forced himself to chat with some of the guards at the lighteyed tent, though he learned nothing, and his brands made something of a stir among them. Adolin and Elhokar finally emerged, their illusions intact. So what was wrong with Kaladin’s? The sphere Shallan had given him was still infused.

Kaladin gathered Drehy and Skar, then joined the king and Adolin as they started the walk home.

“What has you so thoughtful, Captain?” Elhokar asked.

“I think,” Kaladin said, eyes narrowed, “I might have found us another Radiant.”

71. A Sign of Humanity

There weren’t enough boats for an amphibious attack on Rathalas, so Dalinar was forced to use a more conventional assault. He marched down from the west—having sent Adolin back to Kholinar—and assigned Sadeas and his forces to come in from the east. They converged toward the Rift.

Dalinar spent much of the trip passing through pungent smoke trails from the incense Evi burned in a small censer attached to the side of her carriage. A petition to the Heralds to bless her marriage.

He often heard her weeping inside the vehicle, though whenever she left it she was perfectly composed. She read letters, scribed his responses, and took notes at his meetings with generals. In every way, she was the perfect Alethi wife—and her unhappiness crushed his soul.

Eventually they reached the plains around the lake, crossing the riverbed—which was dry, except during storms. The rockbuds drank so fully of the local water supply, they’d grown to enormous sizes. Some were taller than a man’s waist, and the vines they produced were as thick as Dalinar’s wrist.

He rode alongside the carriage—his horse’s hooves beating a familiar rhythm on the stones beneath—and smelled incense. Evi’s hand reached out of her carriage’s side window, and she placed another glyphward into the censer. He didn’t see her face, and her hand retreated quickly.

Storming woman. An Alethi would be using this as a ploy to guilt him into bending. But she wasn’t Alethi, for all her earnest imitations. Evi was far too genuine, and her tears were real. She sincerely thought their spat back in the Veden fortress boded ill for their relationship.

That bothered him. More than he wanted to admit.

A young scout jogged up to give him the latest report: The vanguard had secured his desired camp ground near the city. There had been no fighting yet, and he hadn’t expected any. Tanalan would not abandon the walls around the Rift to try to control ground beyond bowshot.

It was good news, but Dalinar still wanted to snap at the messenger—he wanted to snap at someone. Stormfather, this battle couldn’t come soon enough. He restrained himself and sent the messenger woman away with a word of thanks.

Why did he care so much about Evi’s petulance? He’d never let his arguments with Gavilar bother him. Storms, he’d never let his arguments with Evi bother him this way before. It was strange. He could have the accolades of men, fame that stretched across a continent, but if she didn’t admire him, he felt that he had somehow failed. Could he really ride into combat feeling like this?

No. He couldn’t.

Then do something about it. As they wound through the plain of rockbuds, he called to the driver of Evi’s carriage, having him stop. Then, handing his horse’s reins to an attendant, he climbed into the carriage.

Evi bit her lip as he settled down on the seat across from her. It smelled nice within—the incense was fainter here, while the crem dust of the road was blocked by wood and cloth. The cushions were plush, and she had some dried fruit in a dish, even some chilled water.

“What is wrong?” she demanded.

“I was feeling saddle sore.”

She cocked her head. “Perhaps you could request a salve—”

“I want to talk, Evi,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “I’m not actually sore.”

“Oh.” She pulled her knees up against her chest. In here, she had undone and rolled back her safehand sleeve, displaying her long, elegant fingers.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Dalinar said, looking away from the safehand. “You’ve been praying nonstop.”

“For the Heralds to soften your heart.”

“Right. Well, they’ve done that. Here I am. Let’s talk.”

“No, Dalinar,” she said, reaching across to fondly touch his knee. “I wasn’t praying for myself, but for those of your countrymen you are planning to kill.”

“The rebels?”

“Men no different from you, who happened to be born in another city. What would you have done, had an army come to conquer your home?”

“I’d have fought,” Dalinar said. “As they will. The better men will dominate.”

“What gives you the right?”

“My sword.” Dalinar shrugged. “If the Almighty wants us to rule, we’ll win. If He doesn’t, then we’ll lose. I rather think He wants to see which of us is stronger.”

“And is there no room for mercy?”

“Mercy landed us here in the first place. If they don’t want to fight, they should give in to our rule.”

“But—” She looked down, hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I don’t want another argument.”

“I do,” Dalinar said. “I like it when you stand up for yourself. I like it when you fight.”

She blinked tears and looked away.

“Evi…” Dalinar said.

“I hate what this does to you,” she said softly. “I see beauty in you, Dalinar Kholin. I see a great man struggling against a terrible one. And sometimes, you get this look in your eyes. A horrible, terrifying nothingness. Like you have become a creature with no heart, feasting upon souls to fill that void, dragging painspren in your wake. It haunts me, Dalinar.”

Dalinar shifted on the carriage seat. What did that even mean? A “look” in his eyes? Was this like when she’d claimed that people stored bad memories in their skin, and needed to rub them off with a stone once a month? Westerners had some curiously superstitious beliefs.

“What would you have me do, Evi?” he asked softly.

“Have I won again?” she said, sounding bitter. “Another battle where I’ve bloodied you?”

“I just … I need to know what you want. So I can understand.”

“Don’t kill today. Hold back the monster.”

“And the rebels? Their brightlord?”

“You spared that boy’s life once before.”

“An obvious mistake.”

“A sign of humanity, Dalinar. You asked what I want. It is foolish, and I can see there is trouble here, that you have a duty. But … I do not wish to see you kill. Do not feed it.”

He rested his hand on hers. Eventually the carriage slowed again, and Dalinar stepped out to survey an open area not clogged by rockbuds. The vanguard waited there, five thousand strong, assembled in perfect ranks. Teleb did like to put on a good show.

Across the field, outside of bowshot, a wall broke the landscape with—seemingly—nothing to protect. The city was hidden in the rift in the stone. From the southwest, a breeze off the lake brought the fecund scent of weeds and crem.

Teleb strode up, wearing his Plate. Well, Adolin’s Plate.

Evi’s Plate.

“Brightlord,” Teleb said, “a short time ago, a large guarded caravan left the Rift. We hadn’t the men to besiege the city, and you had ordered us not to engage. So I sent a scout team to tail them, men who know the area, but otherwise let the caravan escape.”

“You did well,” Dalinar said, taking his horse from a groom. “Though I’d have liked to know who was bringing supplies to the Rift, that might have been an attempt to draw you away into a skirmish. However, gather the vanguard now and bring them in behind me. Pass the word to the rest of the men. Have them form ranks, just in case.”

“Sir?” Teleb asked, shocked. “You don’t want to rest the army before attacking?”

Dalinar swung into the saddle and rode past him at a trot, heading toward the Rift. Teleb—usually so unflappable—cursed and shouted orders, then hurried to the vanguard, gathering them and marching them hastily behind Dalinar.

Dalinar made sure not to get too far ahead. Soon he approached the walls of Rathalas, where the rebels had gathered, primarily archers. They wouldn’t be expecting an attack so soon, but of course Dalinar wouldn’t camp for long outside either, not exposed to the storms.

Do not feed it.

Did she know that he considered this hunger inside of him, the bloodlust, to be something strangely external? A companion. Many of his officers felt the same. It was natural. You went to war, and the Thrill was your reward.

Dalinar’s armorers arrived, and he climbed out of the saddle and stepped into the boots they provided, then held out his arms, letting them quickly strap on his breastplate and other sections of armor.

“Wait here,” he told his men, then climbed back onto his horse and set his helm on his pommel. He walked his horse out onto the killing field, summoning his Shardblade and resting it on his shoulder, reins in the other hand.

Years had passed since his last assault on the Rift. He imagined Gavilar racing ahead of him, Sadeas cursing from behind them and demanding “prudence.” Dalinar picked his way forward until he was about halfway to the gates. Any closer and those archers were likely to start shooting; he was already well within their range. He stilled his horse and waited.

There was some discussion on the walls; he could see the agitation among the soldiers. After about thirty minutes of him sitting there, his horse calmly licking the ground and nibbling at the grass that peeked out, the gates finally creaked open. A company of infantrymen poured out, accompanying two men on horseback. Dalinar dismissed the bald one with the purple birthmark across half his face; he was too old to be the boy Dalinar had spared.

It had to be the younger man riding the white steed, cape streaming behind him. Yes, he had an eagerness to him, his horse threatening to outstrip his guards. And the way he stared daggers at Dalinar … this was Brightlord Tanalan, son of the old Tanalan, whom Dalinar had bested after falling down into the Rift itself. That furious fight across wooden bridges and then in a garden suspended from the side of the chasm.

The group stopped about fifty feet from Dalinar.

“Have you come to parley?” called the man with the birthmark on his face.

Dalinar walked his horse closer so he wouldn’t have to shout. Tanalan’s guards raised shields and spears.

Dalinar inspected them, then the fortifications. “You’ve done well here. Polemen on the walls to push me off, should I come in alone. Netting draped down at the top, which you can cut free to entangle me.”

“What do you want, tyrant?” Tanalan snapped. His voice had the typical nasal accent of the Rifters.

Dalinar dismissed his Blade and swung free of his horse, Plate grinding on stone as he hit the ground. “Walk with me a moment, Brightlord. I promise not to harm you unless I’m attacked first.”

“I’m supposed to take your word?”

“What did I do, the last time we were together?” Dalinar asked. “When I had you in my hand, how did I act?”

“You robbed me.”

“And?” Dalinar asked, meeting the younger man’s violet eyes.

Tanalan measured him, tapping one finger against his saddle. Finally he dismounted. The man with the birthmark put a hand on his shoulder, but the youthful brightlord pulled free.

“I don’t see what you hope to accomplish here, Blackthorn,” Tanalan said, joining Dalinar. “We have nothing to say to one another.”

“What do I want to accomplish?” Dalinar said, musing. “I’m not certain. My brother is normally the talker.” He started walking along the corridor between the two hostile armies. Tanalan lingered, then jogged to catch up.

“Your troops look good,” Dalinar said. “Brave. Arrayed against a stronger force, yet determined.”

“They have strong motivation, Blackthorn. You murdered many of their fathers.”

“It will be a pity to destroy them in turn.”

“Assuming you can.”

Dalinar stopped and turned to regard the shorter man. They stood on a too-quiet field, where even the rockbuds and the grass had the sense to withdraw. “Have I ever lost a battle, Tanalan?” Dalinar asked softly. “You know my reputation. Do you think it exaggerated?”

The younger man shifted, looking over his shoulder toward where he had left his guards and advisors. When he looked back, he was more resolved. “Better to die trying to bring you down than to surrender.”

“You’d better be sure of that,” Dalinar said. “Because if I win here, I’m going to have to make an example. I’ll break you, Tanalan. Your sorry, weeping city will be held up before all who would defy my brother. Be absolutely certain you want to fight me, because once this starts, I will be forced to leave only widows and corpses to populate the Rift.”

The young nobleman’s jaw slowly dropped. “I…”

“My brother attempted words and politics to bring you into line,” Dalinar said. “Well, I’m good at only one thing. He builds. I destroy. But because of the tears of a good woman, I have come—against my better judgment—to offer you an alternative. Let’s find an accommodation that will spare your city.”

“An accommodation? You killed my father.”

“And someday a man will kill me,” Dalinar said. “My sons will curse his name as you curse mine. I hope they don’t throw away thousands of lives in a hopeless battle because of that grudge. You want vengeance. Fine. Let’s duel. Me and you. I’ll lend you a Blade and Plate, and we’ll face each other on equal grounds. I win, and your people surrender.”

“And if I beat you, will your armies leave?”

“Hardly,” Dalinar said. “I suspect they’ll fight harder. But they won’t have me, and you’ll have won your father’s Blade back. Who knows? Maybe you’ll defeat the army. You’ll have a better storming chance, at least.”

Tanalan frowned at Dalinar. “You aren’t the man I thought you were.”

“I’m the same man I’ve always been. But today … today that man doesn’t want to kill anyone.”

A sudden fire inside him raged against those words. Was he really going to such lengths to avoid the conflict he’d been so anticipating?

“One of your own is working against you,” Tanalan suddenly said. “The loyal highprinces? There’s a traitor among them.”

“I’d be surprised if there weren’t several,” Dalinar said. “But yes, we know that one has been working with you.”

“A pity,” Tanalan said. “His men were here not an hour ago. A little earlier and you’d have caught them. Maybe they’d have been forced to join me, and their master would have been pulled into the war.” He shook his head, then turned and walked back toward his advisors.

Dalinar sighed in frustration. A dismissal. Well, there had never been much of a chance that this would work. He walked back to his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle.

Tanalan mounted as well. Before riding back to his city, the man gave Dalinar a salute. “This is unfortunate,” he said. “But I see no other way. I cannot defeat you in a duel, Blackthorn. To try would be foolish. But your offer is … appreciated.”

Dalinar grunted, pulled on his helm, then turned his horse.

“Unless…” Tanalan said.

“Unless?”

“Unless, of course, this was really a ruse all along, a scheme arranged by your brother, you, and me,” Tanalan said. “A … false rebellion. Intended to trick disloyal highprinces into revealing themselves.”

Dalinar raised his faceplate and turned back.

“Perhaps my outrage was feigned,” Tanalan said. “Perhaps we have been in touch since your attack here, all those years ago. You did spare my life, after all.”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, feeling a sudden surge of excitement. “That would explain why Gavilar didn’t immediately send our armies against you. We were in collusion all along.”

“What better proof, than the fact that we just had this strange battlefield conversation?” Tanalan looked over his shoulder at the body of his men on the wall. “My men must be thinking it very odd. It will make sense when they hear the truth—that I was telling you about the envoy that had been here, delivering weapons and supplies to us from one of your secret enemies.”

“Your reward, of course,” Dalinar said, “would be legitimacy as a highlord in the kingdom. Perhaps that highprince’s place.”

“And no fighting today,” Tanalan said. “No deaths.”

“No deaths. Except perhaps for the actual traitors.”

Tanalan looked to his advisors. The man with the birthmark nodded slowly.

“They headed east, toward the Unclaimed Hills,” Tanalan said, pointing. “A hundred soldiers and caravaneers. I think they were planning to stay for the night in the waystop at a town called Vedelliar.”

“Who was it?” Dalinar asked. “Which highprince?”

“It might be best if you find out for yourself, as—”

“Who?” Dalinar demanded.

“Brightlord Torol Sadeas.”

Sadeas? “Impossible!”

“As I said,” Tanalan noted. “Best if you see for yourself. But I will testify before the king, assuming you keep your side of our … accord.”

“Open your gates to my men,” Dalinar said, pointing. “Stand down your soldiers. You have my word of honor for your safety.”

With that, he turned and trotted back toward his forces, passing into a corridor of men. As he did, Teleb ran up to meet him. “Brightlord!” he said. “My scouts have returned from surveying that caravan. Sir, it—”

“Was from a highprince?”

“Undoubtedly,” Teleb said. “They couldn’t determine which one, but they claim to have seen someone in Shardplate among them.”

Shardplate? That made no sense.

Unless that is how he’s planning to see that we lose, Dalinar thought. That might not have been a simple supply caravan—it could be a flanking force in disguise.

A single Shardbearer hitting the back of his army while it was distracted could do incredible damage. Dalinar didn’t believe Tanalan, not completely. But … storms, if Sadeas secretly had sent one of his Shardbearers to the battlefield, Dalinar couldn’t just send a simple team of soldiers to deal with him.

“You have command,” he said to Teleb. “Tanalan is going to stand down; have the vanguard join the locals on the fortifications, but do not displace them. Camp the rest of the army back in the field, and keep our officers out of Rathalas. This isn’t a surrender. We’re going to pretend that he was on our side all along, so he can save face and preserve his title. Horinar, I want a company of a hundred elites, our fastest, ready to march with me immediately.”

They obeyed, asking no questions. Runners dashed with messages, and the entire area became a hive of motion, men and women hastening in all directions.

One person stood still in the midst of it, hands clasped hopefully at her breast. “What happened?” Evi asked as he trotted his horse toward her.

“Go back to our camp and compose a message to my brother saying that we may have brought the Rift to our side without bloodshed.” He paused, then added, “Tell him not to trust anyone. One of our closest allies may have betrayed us. I’m going to go find out.”

72. Rockfall

This city had a heartbeat, and Veil felt she could hear it when she closed her eyes.

She crouched in a dim room, hands touching the smooth stone floor, which had been eroded by thousands upon thousands of footfalls. If stone met a man, stone might win—but if stone met humanity, then no force could preserve it.

The city’s heartbeat was deep within these stones, old and slow. It had yet to realize something dark had moved in. A spren as ancient as it was. An urban disease. People didn’t speak of it; they avoided the palace, mentioned the queen only to complain about the ardent who had been killed. It was like standing in a highstorm and griping that your shoes were too tight.

A soft whistling drew Veil’s attention. She looked up and scanned the small loading dock around her, occupied only by herself, Vathah, and their wagon. “Let’s go.”

Veil eased the door open and entered the mansion proper. She and Vathah wore new faces. Hers was a version of Veil with too large a nose and dimpled cheeks.

His was the face of a brutish man Shallan had seen in the market. Red’s whistle meant the coast was clear, so they strode down the hallway without hesitation.

This extravagant stone mansion had been built around a square, skylit atrium, where manicured shalebark and rockbuds flourished, bobbing with lifespren. The atrium went up four stories, with walkways around each level. Red was on the second, whistling as he leaned on the balustrade.

The real showpiece of the mansion, however, wasn’t the garden, but waterfalls. Because not a single one of them was actually water.

They had been, once. But sometime long ago, someone had mixed far too much wealth with far too much imagination. They had hired Soulcasters to transform large fountains of water that had been poured from the top level, four stories up. They’d been Soulcast into other materials right as the water splashed to the floor.

Veil’s path took her along rooms to her left, with an overhang of the first floor’s atrium balcony overhead. A former waterfall spilled down to her right, now made of crystal. The shape of flowing water crashed forever onto the stone floor, where it blossomed outward in a wave, brilliant and glistening. The mansion had changed hands dozens of times, and people called it Rockfall—despite the newest owner’s attempt over the last decade to rename it the incredibly boring Hadinal Keep.

Veil and Vathah hurried along, accompanied by Red’s reassuring whistling. The next waterfall was similar in shape, but made instead from polished dark stumpweight wood. It looked strangely natural, almost like a tree could have grown in that shape, poured from above and running down in an undulating column, splashing outward at the base.

They soon passed a room to their left, where Ishnah was talking with the current mistress of Rockfall. Each time the Everstorm struck, it left destruction—but in an oddly distinct way from a highstorm. Everstorm lightning had proven its greatest danger. The strange red lightning didn’t merely set fires or scorch the ground; it could break through rock, causing blasts of fragmenting stone.

One such strike had broken a gaping hole in the side of this ancient, celebrated mansion. It had been patched with an unsightly wooden wall that would be covered with crem, then finally bricked over. Brightness Nananav—a middle-aged Alethi woman with a bun of hair practically as tall as she was—gestured at the boarded-up hole, and then at the floor.

“You’ll make them match the others,” Nananav said to Ishnah, who wore the guise of a rug merchant. “I won’t stand for them to be even a shade off. When you return with the repaired rugs, I’m going to set them beside the ones in other rooms to check!”

“Yes, Brightness,” Ishnah said. “But the damage is much worse than I—”

“These rugs were woven in Shinovar. They were made by a blind man who trained thirty years with a master weaver before being allowed to produce his own rugs! He died after finishing my commission, so there are no others like these.”

“I’m well aware, as you’ve told me three times now.…”

Veil took a Memory of the woman; then she and Vathah slipped past the room, continuing along the atrium. They were supposedly part of Ishnah’s staff, and wouldn’t be suffered to wander about freely. Red—noting that they were on their way—started to head back to rejoin Ishnah. He’d have been excused to visit the privy, but would be missed if he was gone too long.

His tune cut off.

Veil opened a door and pulled Vathah inside, heart thrumming as—right outside—a pair of guards walked down the stairwell from the second level.

“I still say we should be doing this at night,” Vathah whispered.

“They have this place guarded like a fort at night.”

The change of the guard was in midmorning, so Veil and the others had come just before that. Theoretically, this meant the guards would be tired and bored after an uneventful night.

Veil and Vathah had entered a small library lit by a few spheres in a goblet on the table. Vathah eyed them, but didn’t move—this infiltration was about far more than a few chips. Veil set down her pack and rummaged until she got out a notebook and charcoal pencil.

Veil took a deep breath, then let Shallan bleed back into existence. She quickly sketched Nananav from the glimpse earlier.

“I’m still amazed you were both of them, all along,” Vathah said. “You don’t act anything like one another.”

“That’s rather the point, Vathah.”

“I wish I’d picked it out myself.” He grunted, scratching the side of his head. “I like Veil.”

“Not me?”

“You’re my boss. I’m not supposed to like you.”

Straightforward, if rude. At least you always knew where you stood with him. He listened at the door, then cracked it open, tracking the guards. “All right. We go up the stairs, then come back along the second-floor walkway. We grab the goods, stuff them in the dumbwaiter, and make for the exit. Storms. I wish we could do this when nobody was awake.”

“What would be the fun of that?” Shallan finished her drawing with a flourish, then stood, poking Vathah in the side. “Admit it. You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m as nervous as a new recruit on his first day at war,” Vathah said. “My hands shake, and I swear every noise means someone spotted us. I feel sick.”

“See?” Shallan said. “Fun.” She pushed beside him and glanced out through the cracked door. Storming guards. They’d set up in the atrium nearby. They could undoubtedly hear the real Nananav’s voice from there, so if Shallan strolled out wearing the woman’s face, that would certainly cause alarm.

Time to get creative. Pattern buzzed as she considered. Make the waterfalls flow again? Illusions of strange spren? No … no, nothing so theatrical. Shallan was letting her sense of the dramatic run away with her.

Stay simple, as she’d done before. Veil’s way. She closed her eyes and breathed out, pressing the Light into Pattern, Lightweaving only sound—that of Nananav calling the guards into the room where she was lecturing Ishnah. Why come up with a new trick when the old ones worked fine? Veil didn’t feel the need to improvise merely to be different.

Pattern carried the illusion away, and the sound lured the guards off down the hall. Shallan led Vathah out of the library, then around the corner and up the steps. She breathed out Stormlight, which washed over her, and became Veil fully. Then Veil became the woman who was not quite Veil, with the dimples. And then, layered on top of that, she became Nananav.

Arrogant. Talkative. Certain that everyone around her was just looking for a reason not to do things properly. As they stepped onto the next floor, she adopted a calm, measured gait, eyeing the banister. When had that last been polished?

“I don’t find this fun,” Vathah said, walking beside her. “But I do like it.”

“Then it’s fun.”

“Fun is winning at cards. This is something else.”

He’d taken to his role earnestly, but she really should look at getting more refined servants. Vathah was like a hog in human clothing, always grunting and mulling about.

Why shouldn’t she be served by the best? She was a Knight Radiant. She shouldn’t have to put up with barely human deserters who looked like something Shallan would draw after a hard night drinking, and maybe while holding the pencil with her teeth.

The role is getting to you, a part of her whispered. Careful. She glanced about for Pattern, but he was still below.

They stopped at a second-floor room, locked tightly. The plan was for Pattern to open it, but she didn’t have the patience to wait. Besides, a master-servant was walking along.

He gave a bow when he saw Nananav.

“That is your bow?” Nananav said. “That quick bob? Where did they teach you that?”

“My apologies, Brightness,” the man said, bowing more deeply.

“I could cut your legs off at the knees,” Nananav said. “Then maybe you’d at least appear properly penitent.” She rapped on the door. “Open this.”

“Why—” He broke off, perhaps realizing she was not in a mood for complaints. He hurried forward and undid the combination lock on the door, then pulled it open for her, letting out air that smelled of spice.

“You may go do penance for your insult to me,” Nananav said. “Climb to the roof and sit there for exactly one hour.”

“Brightness, if I have offended—”

“If?” She pointed. “Go!”

He gave another bow—barely sufficient—and ran off.

“You might be overdoing that, Brightness,” Vathah said, rubbing his chin. “She has a reputation for being difficult, not insane.”

“Shut up,” Nananav said, striding into the room.

The mansion’s larder.

Racks of dried sausages covered one wall. Sacks of grain were stacked in the back, and boxes filled with longroots and other tubers covered the floor. Bags of spices. Small jugs of oil.

Vathah pulled the door closed, then hurriedly began stuffing sausages in a sack. Nananav wasn’t so hasty. This was a good place to keep it all, nice and locked up. Taking it elsewhere seemed … well, a crime.

Maybe she could move into Rockfall, act the part. And the former lady of the house? Well, she was an inferior version, obviously. Just deal with her, take her place. It would feel right, wouldn’t it?

With a chill, Veil let one layer of illusion drop. Storms … Storms. What had that been?

“Not to give offense, Brightness,” Vathah said, putting his sack of sausages in the dumbwaiter, “but you can stand there and supervise. Or you can storming help, and get twice as much food along with half as much ego.”

“Sorry,” Veil said, grabbing a sack of grain. “That woman’s head is a frightening place.”

“Well, I did say that Nananav is notoriously difficult.”

Yeah, Veil thought. But I was talking about Shallan.

They worked quickly, filling the large dumbwaiter—which was needed to take in large shipments from the delivery room below. They got all of the sausages, most of the longroots, and a few sacks of grain. Once the dumbwaiter was full, the two of them lowered the thing to the ground floor. They waited by the door, and fortunately Red started whistling. The ground floor was clear again. Not trusting herself with Nananav’s face, she stayed Veil as the two hurried out. Pattern waited outside, and he hummed, climbing her trousers.

On their way down, they passed a waterfall made of pure marble. Shallan would have loved to linger and marvel at the artful Soulcasting. Fortunately, Veil was running this operation. Shallan … Shallan got lost in things. She’d get focused on details, or stick her head in the clouds and dream about the big picture. That comfortable middle, that safe place of moderation, was unfamiliar ground to her.

They descended the steps, then joined Red at the damaged room and helped him carry a rolled-up carpet to the loading bay. She had Pattern quietly open the lock to the dumbwaiter down here, then sent him away to decoy a few servants who had been bringing wood into the bay. They pursued an image of a feral mink with a key in its mouth.

Together, Veil, Red, and Vathah unrolled the rug, filled it with sacks of food from the dumbwaiter, then rolled it back up and heaved it into their waiting wagon. The guards at the gate shouldn’t notice a few extra-bulgy carpets.

They fetched a second carpet, repeated the process, then started back. Veil, however, paused in the loading bay, right by the door. What was that on the ceiling? She cocked her head at the strange sight of pools of liquid, dripping down.

Angerspren, she realized. Collecting there and then boiling through the floor. The larder was directly above them.

“Run!” Veil said, spinning and bolting back toward the wagon. A second later, someone upstairs started shouting.

Veil scrambled into the wagon’s seat, then slapped the chull with the steering reed. Her team, joined by Ishnah, charged back into the room and leapt into the wagon, which started moving. Step. By. Protracted. Step.

Veil … Shallan slapped the large crab on the shell, urging it forward. But chulls went at chull speed. The wagon eased out into the courtyard, and ahead the gates were already closing.

“Storms!” Vathah said. He looked over his shoulder. “Is this part of the ‘fun’?”

Behind them, Nananav burst out of the building, her hair wobbling. “Stop them! Thieves!”

“Shallan?” Vathah asked. “Veil? Whoever you are? Storms, they have crossbows!”

Shallan breathed out.

The gates clanged shut ahead of them. Armed guards entered the small courtyard, weapons ready.

“Shallan!” Vathah cried.

She stood on the wagon, Stormlight swirling around her. The chull pulled to a stop, and she confronted the guards. The men stumbled to a halt, jaws dropping.

Behind, Nananav broke the silence. “What are you idiots doing? Why…”

She trailed off, then pulled up short as Shallan turned to look at her. Wearing the woman’s face.

Same hair. Same features. Same clothing. Mimicked right down to the attitude, with nose in the air. Shallan/Nananav raised her hands to the side, and spren burst from the ground around the wagon. Pools of blood, shimmering the wrong color, and boiling far too violently. Pieces of glass that rained down. Anticipationspren, like thin tentacles.

Shallan/Nananav let her image distort, features sliding off her face, dripping down like paint running down a wall. Ordinary Nananav screamed and fled back toward the building. One of the guards loosed his crossbow, and the bolt took Shallan/Nananav right in the head.

Bother.

Her vision went dark for a moment, and she had a flash of panic remembering her stabbing in the palace. But why should she care if actual painspren joined the illusory ones around her? She righted herself and looked back toward the soldiers, her face melting, the crossbow bolt sticking from her temple.

The guards ran.

“Vathah,” she said, “plesh open sha gate.” Her mouth didn’t work right. How odd.

Vathah didn’t move, so she glared at him.

“Gah!” he shouted, scrambling back and stumbling across one of the rugs in the bed of the wagon. He fell down beside Red, who was surrounded by fearspren, like globs of goo. Even Ishnah looked as if she’d seen a Voidbringer.

Shallan let the illusions go, all of them, right down to Veil. Just normal, everyday Veil. “Itsh all right,” Veil said. “Jush illushionsh. Go, open sha gatesh.”

Vathah heaved himself out of the wagon and ran for the gates.

“Um, Veil?” Red said. “That crossbow bolt … the blood is staining your outfit.”

“I wash going to shrow it away regardlesh,” she said, settling back down, growing more comfortable as Pattern rejoined the wagon and scuttled across the seat to her. “I’ve got a new outfit almosht ready.”

At this rate, she’d have to buy them in bulk.

They maneuvered the wagon out the gates, then picked up Vathah. No guards gave pursuit, and Veil’s mind … drifted as they pulled away.

That … that crossbow bolt was getting annoying. She couldn’t feel her safehand. Bother. She poked at the bolt; it seemed that her Stormlight had healed her head around the wound. She gritted her teeth and tried to pull it out, but the thing was jammed in there. Her vision blurred again.

“I’m going to need shome help, boysh,” she said, pointing at it and drawing in more Stormlight.

She blacked out entirely when Vathah pulled it free. She came to a short time later, slumped in the front seat of the wagon. When she brushed the side of her head with her fingers, she found no hole.

“You worry me sometimes,” Vathah said, steering the chull with a reed.

“I do what needs to be done,” Veil said, relaxing back and setting her feet up on the front of the wagon. Was it only her imagination, or did the people lining the streets today look hungrier than they had previous days? Hungerspren buzzed about the heads of the people, like black specks, or little flies of the type you could find sometimes on rotting plants. Children cried in the laps of exhausted mothers.

Veil turned away, ashamed, thinking of the food she had hidden in the wagon. How much good could she do with all of that? How many tears could she dry, how many of the hungry cries of children could she silence?

Steady …

Infiltrating the Cult of Moments was a greater good than feeding a few mouths now. She needed this food to buy her way in. To investigate … the Heart of the Revel, as Wit had called it.

Veil didn’t know much of the Unmade. She’d never paid attention to the ardents on important matters, let alone when they spoke of old folktales and stories of Voidbringers. Shallan knew little more, and wanted to find a book about the subject, of course.

Last night, Veil had returned to the inn where Shallan had met with the King’s Wit, and while he hadn’t been there, he’d left a message for her.

I’m still trying to get you a contact among the cult’s highers. Everyone I talk to merely says, “Do something to get their attention.” I would, but I’m certain that violating the city’s indecency laws would be unwise, even considering the lack of a proper watch.

Do something to get their attention. They seemed to have their fingers in everything, in this city. Kind of like the Ghostbloods. Watching secretly.

Maybe she didn’t need to wait for Wit. And maybe she could solve two problems at once.

“Take us to the Ringington Market,” she said to Vathah, naming the market closest to the tailor’s shop.

“Aren’t we going to unload the food before we return the wagon to that merchant?”

“Of course we are,” she said.

He eyed her, but when she didn’t explain further, he turned the wagon as she directed. Veil took her hat and coat from the back of the wagon and pulled them on, then covered the bloodstains on her shirt with a Lightweaving.

She had Vathah pull up to a specific building in the market. When they stopped, refugees peeked into the wagon bed, but saw only rugs—and they scattered when Vathah glared at them.

“Guard the wagon,” Veil said, digging out a small sack of food. She hopped down and went sauntering toward the building. The roof had been ruined by the Everstorm, making it a perfect place for squatters. She found Grund inside the main room, as usual.

She’d returned several times during her time in the city, getting information from Grund—who was the grimy little urchin she’d bribed with food on her first day in the market. He seemed to always be hanging around here, and Veil was well aware of the value of having a local urchin to ply for information.

Today, he was alone in the room. The other beggars were out hunting food. Grund drew on a little board with charcoal, using his one good hand, the deformed one hidden in his pocket. He perked up as soon as he saw her. He’d stopped running away; it seemed that city urchins got concerned when someone was actively looking for them.

That changed when they knew you had food.

He tried to look uninterested until Veil dropped the sack in front of him. A sausage peeked out. Then, his dark eyes practically bulged out of his face.

“An entire sack?” Grund asked.

“It was a good day,” Veil said, squatting down. “Any news for me on those books?”

“Nope,” he said, poking the sausage—as if to see whether she’d suddenly snatch it back. “I ain’t heard nothing.”

“Let me know if you do. In the meantime, do you know of anyone who could use a little extra food? People who are particularly nice or deserving, but who get overlooked by the grain rationing?”

He eyed her, trying to determine her angle.

“I’ve got extra to give away,” Veil explained.

“You’re going to give them food.” He said it as if it was as rational as making cremlings fall from the sky.

“Surely I’m not the first. The palace used to give food to the poor, didn’t it?”

“That’s a thing that kings do. Not regular people.” He looked her up and down. “But you aren’t regular people.”

“I’m not.”

“Well … Muri the seamstress has always been nice to me. She’s got lots of kids. Having trouble feedin’ them. She has a hovel over by the old bakery that burned down on that first Evernight. And the refugee kids that live in the park over on Moonlight Way. They’re just little, you know? Nobody to watch for them. And Jom, the cobbler. He broke his arm … You wanna write this down or something?”

“I’ll remember.”

He shrugged and gave her an extensive list. She thanked him, then reminded him to keep looking for the book she’d asked for. Ishnah had visited some booksellers on Shallan’s orders, and one had mentioned a title called Mythica, a newer volume that spoke of the Unmade. The bookseller had owned a copy, but his shop had been robbed during the riots. Hopefully, someone in the underground knew where his goods had gone.

Veil had a spring to her step as she walked back to the wagon. The cult wanted her to get their attention? Well, she’d get their attention. She doubted Grund’s list was unbiased, but stopping right in the middle of the market and heaving out sacks seemed likely to incite a riot. This was as good a method to give away the food as any.

Muri the seamstress proved to indeed be a woman with many children and little means of feeding them. The children in the park were right where Grund had indicated. Veil left a heap of food for them, then walked away as they scrambled up to it in amazement.

By the fourth stop, Vathah had figured it out. “You’re going to give it all away, aren’t you?”

“Not all,” Veil said, lounging in her seat as they rolled toward the next destination.

“What about paying the Cult of Moments?”

“We can always steal more. First, my contact says we have to get their attention. I figure, a crazy woman in white riding through the market throwing out sacks of food is bound to do that.”

“You’ve got the crazy part right, at least.”

Veil slipped her hand back into a rolled-up carpet, and pulled out a sausage for him. “Eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

He grumbled, but took it and bit at the end.

By the evening, the cart was empty. Veil wasn’t certain if she could get the cult’s attention this way, but storms did it feel good to be doing something. Shallan could go off and study books, talk plots, and scheme. Veil would worry about the people who were actually starving.

She didn’t give it all away though. She let Vathah keep his sausage.

73. Telling Which Stories

“Stuff it, Beard,” Ved said. “You did not meet the Blackthorn.”

“I did!” the other soldier said. “He complimented me on my uniform, and gave me his own knife. For valor.”

“Liar.”

“Be careful,” Beard said. “Kal might stab you if you keep interrupting a good story.”

“Me?” Kaladin said, walking with the others of the squad on patrol. “Don’t bring me into this, Beard.”

“Look at him,” Beard said. “He’s got hungry eyes, Ved. He wants to hear the end of the story.”

Kaladin smiled with the others. He had joined the Wall Guard officially upon Elhokar’s orders, and had promptly been added to Lieutenant Noro’s squad. It felt almost … cheap to be part of the group so quickly, after the effort it had been to forge Bridge Four.

Still, Kaladin liked these men, and enjoyed their banter as they ran their patrol beat along the inside base of the wall. Six men was a lot for a simple patrol, but Azure wanted them to stay in groups. Along with Beard, Ved, and Noro, the squad included a heavyset man named Alaward and a friendly man named Vaceslv—Alethi, but with obvious Thaylen heritage. The two kept trying to get Kaladin to play cards with them.

It was an uncomfortable reminder of Sah and the parshmen.

“Well, you won’t believe what happened next,” Beard continued. “The Blackthorn told me … Oh, storm it. You’re not listening, are you?”

“Nope,” Ved said. “Too busy looking at that.” He nodded back at something they’d passed.

Beard snickered. “Ha! Will you look at that roosting chicken? Who does he think he’s impressing?”

“Storming waste of skin,” Ved agreed.

Kal grinned, glanced over his shoulder, looking for whoever Beard and Ved had spotted. Must be someone silly to provoke such a strong …

It was Adolin.

The prince lounged on the corner, wearing a false face and a yellow suit after the new fashionable style. He was guarded by Drehy, who stood several inches taller, happily munching on some chouta.

“Somewhere,” Beard said solemnly, “a kingdom is without its banners because that fellow bought them all up and made coats out of them.”

“Where do they think up these things?” Vaceslv asked. “I mean … storms! Do they just say, ‘You know what I need for the apocalypse? You know what would be really handy? A new coat. Extra sequins.’ ”

They passed Adolin—who nodded toward Kaladin, then looked away. That meant all was well, and Kaladin could continue with the guards. A shake of the head would have been the sign to extricate himself and return to the tailor’s shop.

Beard continued to snicker. “When in the service of the merchant lords of Steen,” he noted, “I once had to swim across an entire vat of dye in order to save the prince’s daughter. When I was done, I still wasn’t as colorful as that preening cremling.”

Alaward grunted. “Storming highborns. Useless for anything but giving bad orders and eating twice as much food as an honest man.”

“But,” Kaladin said, “how can you say that? I mean, he’s lighteyed. Like us.” He winced. Did that sound fake? It sure is nice being lighteyed as I, of course, have light eyes—like you, my eyes are lighter than the dark eyes of darkeyes. He had to summon Syl several times a day to keep his eye color from changing.

“Like us?” Beard said. “Kal, what crevasse have you been living in? Are the middlers actually useful where you come from?”

“Some,” Kaladin said.

Beard and Ved—well, the whole squad, except Noro—were tenners: men of the tenth dahn, lowest ranking in the lighteyed stratification system. Kaladin hadn’t ever paid much attention; to him, lighteyes had always just been lighteyes.

These men saw the world very differently. Middlers were anyone better than eighth dahn, but who weren’t quite highlords. They might as well have been another species, for how the squadsmen thought of them—particularly those of the fifth and sixth dahn who didn’t serve in the military.

How was it that these men somehow naturally ended up surrounding themselves with others of their own rank? They married tenners, drank with tenners, joked with tenners. They had their own jargon and traditions. There was an entire world represented here that Kaladin had never seen, despite it residing right next door to him.

“Some middlers are useful,” Kaladin said. “Some of them are good at dueling. Maybe we could go back and recruit that guy. He was wearing a sword.”

The others looked at him like he was mad.

“Kal, my kip,” Beard said. “Kip” was a slang word that Kaladin hadn’t quite figured out yet. “You’re a good fellow. I like how you see the best in folks. You haven’t even learned to ignore me yet, which most folks decide to do after our first meal together.

“But you’ve got to learn to see the world for how it is. You can’t go around trusting middlers, unless they’re good officers like the highmarshal. Men like that one back there, they’ll strut about telling you everything you should do—but put them on the wall during an attack, and they’ll wet themselves yellower than that suit.”

“They have parties,” Ved agreed. “Best thing for them, really. Keeps them out of our business.”

What a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, he wanted to tell them about Amaram and rant about the injustices done—repeatedly—to those he loved. At the same time … they were mocking Adolin Kholin, who had a shot at the title of best swordsman in all of Alethkar. Yes, his suit was a little bright—but if they would merely spend five minutes talking to him, they’d see he wasn’t so bad.

Kaladin trudged along. It felt wrong to be on patrol without a spear, and he instinctively sought out Syl, who rode the winds above. He’d been given a side sword to carry at his right, a truncheon to carry at his left, and a small round shield. The first thing the Wall Guard had taught him was how to draw the sword by reaching down with his right hand—not lowering his shield—and pulling it free of the sheath.

They wouldn’t use sword or truncheon when the Voidbringers finally assaulted; there were proper pikes up above for that. Down here was a different matter. The large road—it rounded the city alongside the wall—was clear and clean, maintained by the Guard. But most of the streets that branched off it were crowded with people. Nobody but the poorest and most wretched wanted to be this close to the walls.

“How is it,” Ved said, “those refugees can’t get it through their heads that we’re the only thing separating them from the army outside?”

Indeed, many of those they passed on side streets watched the patrol with outright hostility. At least nobody had thrown anything at them today.

“They see that we’re fed,” Noro replied. “They smell food from our barracks. They’re not thinking with their heads, but with their stomachs.”

“Half of those belong to the cult anyway,” Beard noted. “One of these days, I’ll have to infiltrate that. Might have to marry their high priestess, but let me tell you, I’m terrible in a harem. Last time, the other men grew jealous of me taking all the priestess’s attention.”

“She laughed so hard at your offering she got distracted, eh?” Ved asked.

“Actually, there’s a story about—”

“Calm it, Beard,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s get ready for the delivery.” He shifted his shield to his other hand, then took out his truncheon. “Get intimidating, everybody. Truncheons only.”

The group pulled out their wooden cudgels. It felt wrong to have to defend themselves from their own people—brought back memories of being in Amaram’s army, bivouacking near towns. Everyone had always talked about the glories of the army and the fight on the Shattered Plains. And yet, once towns got done gawking, they transitioned to hostility with remarkable speed. An army was the sort of thing everyone wanted to have, so long as it was off doing important things elsewhere.

Noro’s squad met up with another from their platoon—with two squads on the wall for duty, two squads off, and two down here patrolling, they were around forty strong. Together, the twelve men formed up to guard a slow, chull-pulled wagon that left one of their larger barrack warehouses. It carried a mound of closed sacks.

Refugees crowded around, and Kaladin brandished his truncheon. He had to use his shield to shove a man who got too close. Fortunately, this caused others to back away, instead of rushing the wagon.

They rolled inward only one street before stopping at a city square. Syl flitted down and rested on his shoulder. “They … they look like they hate you.”

“Not me,” Kaladin whispered. “The uniform.”

“What … what will you do if they actually attack?”

He didn’t know. He hadn’t come to this city to fight the populace, but if he refused to defend the squad …

“Storming Velalant is late,” Ved grumbled.

“A little more time,” Noro said. “We’ll be fine. The good people know this food goes to them eventually.”

Yes, after they wait hours in line at Velalant’s distribution stations.

Farther into the city—obscured by the gathering crowds—a group of people approached in stark violet, with masks obscuring their faces. Kaladin watched uncomfortably as they started whipping their own forearms. Drawing painspren, which climbed from the ground around them, like hands missing the skin. Except these were too large, and the wrong color, and … and didn’t seem human.

“I prayed to the spren of the night and they came to me!” a man at their forefront shouted, raising hands high. “They rid me of my pain!”

“Oh no…” Syl whispered.

“Embrace them! The spren of changes! The spren of a new storm, a new land. A new people!”

Kaladin took Noro by the arm. “Sir, we need to retreat. Get this grain back to the warehouse.”

“We have orders to…” Noro trailed off as he glanced at the increasingly hostile crowd.

Fortunately, a group of some fifty men in blue and red rounded a corner and began shoving aside refugees with rough hands and barked shouts. Noro’s sigh was almost comically loud. The angry crowd broke away as Velalant’s troops surrounded the grain shipment.

“Why do we do this in the daytime?” Kaladin asked one of their officers. “And why don’t you simply come to our warehouse and escort it from there? Why the display?”

A soldier moved him—politely, but firmly—back from the wagon. The troops surrounded it and marched it away, the crowd flowing after them.

When they got back to the wall, Kaladin felt like a man seeing land after swimming all the way to Thaylenah. He pressed his palm against the stone, feeling its cool, rough grain. Drawing a sense of safety from it, much as he would draw out Stormlight. It would have been easy to fight that crowd—they were basically unarmed. But while training prepared you for the mechanics of the fight, the emotions were another thing entirely. Syl huddled on his shoulder, staring back along the street.

“This is all the queen’s fault,” Beard muttered softly. “If she hadn’t killed that ardent…”

“Stop with that,” Noro said sharply. He took a deep breath. “My squad, we’re on the wall next. You have half an hour to grab a drink or a nap, then assemble at our station above.”

“And storms be praised for that!” Beard said, heading straight for the stairwell, obviously planning to get to the station above, then relax. “I’ll happily take some time staring down an enemy army, thank you very much.”

Kaladin joined Beard in climbing. He still didn’t know where the man had gotten his nickname. Noro was the only one in the squad who wore a beard, though his wasn’t exactly inspiring. Rock would have laughed it to shame and euthanized it with a razor and some soap.

“Why do we pay off the highlords, Beard?” Kaladin asked as they climbed. “Velalant and his type are pretty useless, from what I’ve seen.”

“Yeah. We lost the real highlords in the riots or to the palace. But the highmarshal knows what to do. I suspect that if we didn’t share with people like Velalant, we’d have to fight them off from seizing the grain. At least this way, people are eventually getting fed, and we can watch the wall.”

They talked like that a lot. Holding the city wall was their job, and if they looked too far afield—tried too hard to police the city or bring down the cult—they’d lose their focus. The city had to stand. Even if it burned inside, it had to stand. To an extent, Kaladin agreed. The army couldn’t do everything.

It still hurt.

“When are you going to tell me how we make all that food?” Kaladin whispered.

“I…” Beard looked around in the stairwell. He leaned in. “I don’t know, Kal. But first thing that Azure did when he took command? Had us attack the low monastery, by the eastern gates, away from the palace. I know men from other companies who were on that assault. The place had been overrun by rioters.”

“They had a Soulcaster, didn’t they?”

Beard nodded. “Only one in the city that wasn’t at the palace when it … you know.”

“But how do we use it without drawing the screamers?” Kaladin asked.

“Well,” Beard said, and his tone shifted. “I can’t tell you all the secrets, but…” He launched into a story about the time Beard himself had learned to use a Soulcaster from the king of Herdaz. Maybe he wasn’t the best source of information.

“The highmarshal,” Kaladin interrupted. “Have you noticed the odd thing about her Shardblade? No gemstone on the pommel or crossguard.”

Beard eyed him, lit by the stairwell’s window slits. Calling the highmarshal a “she” always provoked a response. “Maybe that’s why the highmarshal never dismisses it,” Beard said. “Maybe it’s broken somehow?”

“Maybe,” Kaladin said. Aside from his fellow Radiants’ Blades, he’d seen one Shardblade before that didn’t have a gemstone on it. The Blade of the Assassin in White. An Honorblade, which granted Radiant powers to whoever held it. If Azure held a weapon that let her have the power of Soulcasting, perhaps that explained why the screamers hadn’t found out yet.

They finally emerged onto the top of the wall, stepping into sunlight. The two of them stopped there, looking inward over the flowing city—with the breaching windblades and rolling hills. The palace, ever in gloom, dominated the far side. The Wall Guard barely patrolled the section of wall that passed behind it.

“Did you know anyone in the Palace Guard ranks?” Kaladin asked. “Are any of the men in there still in contact with families out here or anything?”

Beard shook his head. “I got close a little while back. I heard voices, Kal. Whispering to me to join them. The highmarshal says we have to close our ears to those. They can’t take us unless we listen.” He rested his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Your questions are honest, Kal. But you worry too much. We need to focus on the wall. Best not to talk too much about the queen, or the palace.”

“Like we don’t talk about Azure being a woman.”

“Her secret”—Beard winced—“I mean, the highmarshal’s secret is ours to guard and protect.”

“We do a storming poor job of that, then. Hopefully we’re better at defending the wall.”

Beard shrugged, hand still on Kaladin’s shoulder. For the first time, Kaladin noticed something. “No glyphward.”

Beard glanced at his arm, where he wore the traditional white armband that you’d tie a glyphward around. His was blank. “Yeah,” he said, shoving his hand in his coat pocket.

“Why not?” Kaladin said.

Beard shrugged. “Let’s just say, I know a lot about telling which stories have been made up. Nobody’s watching over us, Kal.”

He trudged off toward their muster station: one of the tower structures that lined the wall. Syl stood up on Kaladin’s shoulder, then walked up—as if on invisible steps—through the air to stand even with his eyes. She looked after Beard, her girlish dress rippling in wind that Kaladin couldn’t feel. “Dalinar thinks God isn’t dead,” she said. “Just that the Almighty—Honor—was never actually God.”

“You’re part of Honor. Doesn’t that offend you?”

“Every child eventually realizes that her father isn’t actually God.” She looked at him. “Do you think anybody is watching? Do you really think there isn’t anything out there?”

Strange question to answer, to a little bit of a divinity.

Kaladin lingered in the doorway to the guard tower. Inside, the men of his squad—Platoon Seven, Squad Two, which didn’t have the same ring to it as Bridge Four—laughed and banged about as they gathered equipment.

“I used to take the terrible things that had happened to me,” he said, “as proof that there was no god. Then in some of my darkest moments, I took my life as proof there must be something up there, for only intentional cruelty could offer an explanation.”

He took a deep breath, then looked toward the clouds. He had been delivered up to the sky, and had found magnificence there. He’d been given the power to protect and defend.

“Now,” he said. “Now I don’t know. With all due respect, I think Dalinar’s beliefs sound too convenient. Now that one deity has proven faulty, he insists the Almighty must never have been God? That there must be something else? I don’t like it. So … maybe this simply isn’t a question we can ever answer.”

He stepped into the fortification. It had broad doorways on either side leading in from the wall, while slits along the outward side provided archer positions, as did the roof. To his right stood racks of weapons and shields, and a table for mess. Above that, a large window looked out at the city beyond, where those inside could get specific orders via signal flags from below.

He was sliding his shield onto a rack when the drums sounded, calling the alarm. Syl zipped up behind him like string suddenly pulled taut.

“Assault on the wall!” Kaladin shouted, reading the drumbeats. “Equip up!” He scrambled across the room and seized a pike from the line on the wall. He tossed it to the first man who came, then continued distributing as the men scrambled to obey the signals. Lieutenant Noro and Beard handed out shields—rectangular full shields in contrast to the small round patrolling shields they’d carried below.

“Form up!” Kaladin shouted, right before Noro did it.

Storms. I’m not their commander. Feeling like an idiot, Kaladin took his own pike and balanced the long pole, carrying it out beside Beard, who carried only a shield. On the wall, the four squads formed a bristling formation of pikes and overlapping shields. Some of the men in the center—like Kaladin and Noro—held only a pike, gripping it two-handed.

Sweat trickled down Kaladin’s temples. He’d been trained briefly in pike blocks during his time in Amaram’s army. They were used as a counter to heavy cavalry, which was a newer development in Alethi warfare. He couldn’t imagine that they’d be terribly effective atop a wall. They were great for thrusting outward toward an enemy block of troops, but it was difficult for him to keep the pike pointed upward. It didn’t balance well that way, but how else were they to fight the Fused?

The other platoon that shared a station with them formed up on the tower’s top, holding bows. Hopefully, the arrow cover mixed with the defensive pike formation would be effective. Kaladin finally saw the Fused streaking through the air—approaching another section of the wall.

Men in his platoon waited, nervous, adjusting glyphwards or repositioning shields. The Fused clashed distantly with others of the Wall Guard; Kaladin could barely make out yells. The drumbeats from the drummers’ stations were a holding beat, telling everyone to remain in their own section.

Syl came zipping back, moving agitatedly, sweeping one way, then the other. Several men in the formation leaned out, as if wanting to break away and go charging to where their fellows were fighting.

Steady, Kaladin thought, but cut himself off from saying it. He wasn’t in command here. Captain Deedanor, the platoon leader, hadn’t arrived yet—which meant Noro was the ranking officer, with seniority over the other squad lieutenants. Kaladin gritted his teeth, straining, forcibly keeping himself from giving any kind of order until—blessedly—Noro spoke up.

“Now, don’t you break away, Hid,” the lieutenant called. “Keep your shields together, men. If we rush off now, we’ll be easy pickings.”

The men reluctantly pulled back into formation. Eventually, the Fused streaked away. Their strikes never lasted long; they would hit hard, testing reaction times at various places along the wall—and they often broke into and searched the towers nearby. They were preparing for a true assault, and—Kaladin figured—also trying to find out how the Wall Guard was feeding itself.

The drums signaled for the squads to stand down, and the men of Kaladin’s platoon lethargically trudged back to their tower. A sense of frustration accompanied them. Pent-up aggression. All of that anxiety, the rush of the battle, only to stand around and sweat while other men died.

Kaladin helped rack up the weapons, then got himself a bowl of stew and joined Lieutenant Noro, who was waiting on the wall right outside the tower. A messenger used signal flags to indicate to others down in the city that Noro’s platoon hadn’t engaged.

“You have my apologies, sir,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”

“Um … it?”

“I preempted you earlier,” Kaladin said. “Gave orders when it was your place.”

“Oh! Well, you’re quite quick off the cuff, Kal! Eager for combat, I’d say.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“You want to prove yourself to the team,” Noro said, rubbing his wispy beard. “Well, I like a man with enthusiasm. Keep your head, and I suspect you’ll end up as a squadleader before too long.” He said it like a proud parent.

“Permission, sir, to be excused from duty? There might be wounded that need my attention farther along the wall.”

“Wounded? Kal, I know you said you had some field medicine training—but the army’s surgeons will be there already.”

Right, they’d have actual surgeons.

Noro clapped him on the shoulder. “Go in and eat your stew. There will be enough action later. Don’t run too fast toward danger, all right?”

“I’ll … try to remember that, sir.”

Still, there was nothing to do but walk back into the tower, Syl alighting on his shoulder, and sit down to eat his stew.

74. Swiftspren

Veil leaned her head to look in through the window of the old, broken shop in the market. Grund the urchin sat in his usual place, carefully stripping down an old pair of shoes for the hogshide. As he heard Veil, he dropped his tool and reached for a knife with his good hand.

He saw that it was her, then caught the package of food she tossed to him. It was smaller this time, but actually had some fruit. Very rare in the city these days. The urchin pulled the bag of food close, closing his dark green eyes, looking … reserved. What an odd expression.

He’s still suspicious of me, she thought. He’s wondering what I’ll someday demand of him for all this.

“Where are Ma and Seland?” Veil asked. She had prepared packages for the two women who stayed here with Grund.

“Moved out to the old tinker’s place,” Grund said. He thumbed upward, toward the sagging ceiling. “Thought this place was getting too dangerous.”

“You sure you don’t want to do the same?”

“Nah,” he said. “I can finally move without kicking someone.”

She left him and shoved her hands in her pockets, wearing her new coat and hat against the cool air. She’d hoped that Kholinar would prove to be warmer, after so long on the Shattered Plains or Urithiru. But it was cold here too, suffering a season of winter weather. Perhaps the arrival of the Everstorm was to be blamed.

She checked in on Muri next, the former seamstress with three daughters. She was of second nahn, high ranking for a darkeyes, and had run a successful business in a town near Revolar. Now she trolled the water ditches following storms for the corpses of rats and cremlings.

Muri always had some gossip that was amusing but generally pointless. Veil left about an hour later and made her way out of the market, dropping her last package in the lap of a random beggar.

The old beggar sniffed the package, then whooped with excitement. “The Swiftspren!” he said, nudging one of the other beggars. “Look, the Swiftspren!” He cackled, digging into the package, and his friend roused from his sleep and snatched some flatbread.

“Swiftspren?” Veil asked.

“That’s you!” he said. “Yup, yup! I heard of you. Robbing rich folk all through the city, you do! And nobody can stop you, ’cuz you’re a spren. Can walk through walls, you can. White hat, white coat. Don’t always appear the same, do ya?”

The beggar started stuffing his face. Veil smiled—her reputation was spreading. She’d enhanced it by sending Ishnah and Vathah out, wearing illusions to look like Veil, giving away food. Surely, the cult couldn’t ignore her much longer. Pattern hummed as she stretched, exhaustionspren—all of the corrupted variety—spinning about her in the air, little red whirlwinds. The merchant she’d stolen from earlier had chased her away himself, and had been nimble for his age.

“Why?” Pattern asked.

“Why what?” Veil asked. “Why is the sky blue, the sun bright? Why do storms blow, or rains fall?”

“Mmmm … Why are you so happy about feeding so few?”

“Feeding these few is something we can do.”

“So is jumping from a building,” he said—frank, as if he didn’t understand the sarcasm he used. “But we do not do this. You lie, Shallan.”

“Veil.”

“Your lies wrap other lies. Mmm…” He sounded drowsy. Could spren get drowsy? “Remember your Ideal, the truth you spoke.”

She shoved hands in her pockets. Evening was coming, the sun slipping toward the western horizon. As if it were running from the Origin and the storms.

It was the individual touch, the light in the eyes of people she gave to, that really excited her. Feeding them felt so much more real than the rest of the plan to infiltrate the cult and investigate the Oathgate.

It’s too small, she thought. That was what Jasnah would say. I’m thinking too small.

Along the street, she passed people who whimpered and suffered. Far too many hungerspren in the air, and fearspren at nearly every corner. She had to do something to help.

Like throwing a thimbleful of water onto a bonfire.

She stood at an intersection, head bowed, as the shadows grew long, reaching toward night. Chanting broke her out of her trance. How long had she been standing there?

Flickering light, orange and primal, painted a street to her left. No sphere glowed that color. She walked toward it, pulling off her hat and sucking in Stormlight. She released it in a puff, then stepped through, trailing tendrils that wrapped around her and transformed her shape.

People had gathered, as they usually did, when the Cult of Moments paraded. Swiftspren broke through them, wearing the costume of a spren from her notes—notes she’d lost to the sea. A spren shaped like a glowing arrowhead that wove through the sky around skyeels.

Golden tassels streamed from her back, long, with arrowhead shapes at the ends. Her entire front was wrapped in cloth that trailed behind, her arms, legs, and face covered. Swiftspren flowed among the cultists, and drew stares even from them.

I have to do more, she thought. I have to think grander schemes.

Could Shallan’s lies help her be something more than a broken girl from rural Jah Keved? A girl who was, deep down, terrified that she had no idea what she was doing.

The cultists chanted softly, repeating the words of the leaders at the front.

“Our time has passed.”

“Our time has passed.”

“The spren have come.”

“The spren have come.”

“Give them our sins.”

“Give them our sins.…”

Yes … she could feel it. The freedom these people felt. It was the peace of surrender. They coursed down the street, proffering their torches and lanterns toward the sky, wearing the garb of spren. Why worry? Embrace the release, embrace the transition, embrace the coming of storm and spren.

Embrace the end.

Swiftspren breathed in their chants and saturated herself with their ideas. She became them, and she could hear it, whispering in the back of her mind.

Surrender.

Give me your passion. Your pain. Your love.

Give up your guilt.

Embrace the end.

Shallan, I’m not your enemy.

That last one stood out, like a scar on a beautiful man’s face. Jarring.

She came to herself. Storms. She’d initially thought that this group might lead her up to the revel on the Oathgate platform, but … she’d let herself be carried away by the darkness. Trembling, she stopped in place.

The others stopped around her. The illusion—the sprenlike tassels behind her—continued to stream, even when she wasn’t walking. There was no wind.

The cultists’ chanting broke off, and corrupted awespren exploded around several of their heads. Soot-black puffs. Some fell to their knees. To them—wrapped in streaming cloth, face obscured, ignoring wind and gravity—she would look like an actual spren.

“There are spren,” Shallan said to the gathered crowd, using Lightweaving to twist and warp her voice, “and there are spren. You followed the dark ones. They whisper for you to abandon yourselves. They lie.”

The cultists gasped.

“We do not want your devotion. When have spren ever demanded your devotion? Stop dancing in the streets and be men and women again. Strip off those idiotic costumes and return to your families!”

They didn’t move quickly enough, so she sent her tassels streaming upward, curling about one another, lengthening. A powerful light flashed from her.

“Go!” she shouted.

They fled, some throwing off their costumes as they went. Shallan waited, trembling, until she was alone. She let the glow vanish and shrouded herself in blackness, then stepped off the street.

When she emerged from the blackness, she looked like Veil again. Storms. She’d … she’d become one of them so easily. Was her mind so quickly corrupted?

She wrapped her arms around herself, trailing through streets and markets. Jasnah would have been strong enough to keep going with them until reaching the platform. And if these hadn’t been allowed up—most that wandered the streets weren’t privileged enough to join the feast—then she’d have done something else. Perhaps take the place of one of the feast guards.

Truth was, she enjoyed the thievery and feeding the people. Veil wanted to be a hero of the streets, like in the old stories. That had corrupted Shallan, preventing her from going forward with something more logical.

But she’d never been the logical one. That was Jasnah, and Shallan couldn’t be her. Maybe … maybe she could become Radiant and …

She huddled against a wall, arms wrapped around herself. Sweating, trembling, she went looking for light. She found it down a street: a calm, level glow. The friendly light of spheres, and with it a sound that seemed impossible. Laughter?

She chased it, hungry, until she reached a gathering of people singing beneath Nomon’s azure gaze. They’d overturned boxes, gathering in a ring, while one man led the boisterous songs.

Shallan watched, hand on the wall of a building, Veil’s hat held limply in her gloved safehand. Shouldn’t that laughter have been more desperate? How could they be so happy? How could they sing? In that moment, these people seemed like strange beasts, beyond her understanding.

Sometimes she felt like a thing wearing a human skin. She was that thing in Urithiru, the Unmade, who sent out puppets to feign humanity.

It’s him, she noticed absently. Wit’s leading the songs.

He hadn’t left her any more messages at the inn. Last time she’d visited, the innkeeper complained that he’d moved out, and had coerced her to pay Wit’s tab.

Veil pulled on her hat, then turned and trailed away down the small market street.

She turned herself back into Shallan right before she reached the tailor’s shop. Veil let go reluctantly, as she kept wanting to go track down Kaladin in the Wall Guard. He wouldn’t know her, so she could approach him, pretend to get to know him. Maybe flirt a little …

Radiant was aghast at that idea. Her oaths to Adolin weren’t complete, but they were important. She respected him, and enjoyed their time training together with the sword.

And Shallan … what did Shallan want again? Did it matter? Why bother worrying about her?

Veil finally let go. She folded her hat and coat, then used an illusion to disguise them as a satchel. She layered an illusion of Shallan and her havah over the top of her trousers and shirt, then strolled inside, where she found Drehy and Skar playing cards and debating which kind of chouta was best. There were different kinds?

Shallan nodded to them, then—exhausted—started up the steps. A few hungerspren, however, reminded her that she hadn’t saved anything for herself from the day’s thievery. She put away her clothing, then hiked down to the kitchen.

Here she found Elhokar drinking from a single cup of wine into which he’d dropped a sphere. That red-violet glow was the room’s only light. On the table before him was a sheet of glyphs: names of the houses he had been approaching, through the parties. He’d crossed out some of the names, but had circled the others, writing down numbers of troops they might be able to provide. Fifty armsmen here, thirty there.

He raised the glowing cup to her as she gathered some flatbread and sugar. “What is that design on your skirt? It … seems familiar to me.”

She glanced down. Pattern, who usually clung to her coat, had been replicated in the illusion on the side of her havah. “Familiar?”

Elhokar nodded. He didn’t seem drunk, just contemplative. “I used to see myself as a hero, like you. I imagined claiming the Shattered Plains in my father’s name. Vengeance for blood spilled. It doesn’t even matter now, does it? That we won?”

“Of course it matters,” Shallan said. “We have Urithiru, and we defeated a large army of Voidbringers.”

He grunted. “Sometimes I think that if I merely insist long enough, the world will transform. But wishing and expecting is of the Passions. A heresy. A good Vorin worries about transforming themselves.”

Give me your passion.…

“Have you any news about the Oathgate or the Cult of Moments?” Elhokar asked.

“No. I have some thoughts about getting up there though. New ones.”

“Good. I might have troops for us soon, though their numbers will be smaller than I’d hoped. We depend upon your reconnaissance, however. I would know what is happening on that platform before I march troops onto it.”

“Give me a few more days. I’ll get onto the platform, I promise.”

He took a drink of his wine. “There are few people remaining to whom I can still be a hero, Radiant. This city. My son. Storms. He was a baby when I last saw him. He’d be three now. Locked in the palace…”

Shallan set down her food. “Wait here.” She fetched her sketchpad and pencils from a shelf in the showroom, then returned to Elhokar and settled down. She placed some spheres out for light, then started drawing.

Elhokar sat at the table across from her, lit by the cup of wine. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t have a proper sketch of you,” Shallan said. “I want one.”

Creationspren started to appear around her immediately. They seemed normal, though they were so odd anyway, it could be hard to tell.

Elhokar was a good man. In his heart, at least. Shouldn’t that matter most? He moved to look over her shoulder, but she was no longer sketching from sight.

“We’ll save them,” Shallan whispered. “You’ll save them. It will be all right.”

Elhokar watched silently as she filled in the shading and finished the picture. Once she lifted her pencil, Elhokar reached past her and rested his fingers on the page. It depicted Elhokar kneeling on the ground, beaten down, clothing ragged. But he looked upward, outward, chin raised. He wasn’t beaten. No, this man was noble, regal.

“Is that what I look like?” he whispered.

“Yes.” It’s what you could be, at least.

“May I … may I have it?”

She lacquered the page, then handed it to him.

“Thank you.” Storms. He almost seemed to be in tears!

Feeling embarrassed, she gathered her supplies and her food, then hurried out of the kitchen. Back in her rooms, she met Ishnah, who was grinning. The short, darkeyed woman had been out earlier, wearing Veil’s face and clothing.

She held up a slip of paper. “Someone handed me this today, Brightness, while I was giving away food.”

Frowning, Shallan took the note.

Meet us at the borders of the revel in two nights, the day of the next Everstorm, it read. Come alone. Bring food. Join the feast.

75. Only Red

Dalinar left the horse.

Horses were too slow.

A misty fog blew off the lake, reminding him of that day long ago when he, Gavilar, and Sadeas had first attacked the Rift.

The elites who accompanied him were the product of years of planning and training. Primarily archers, they wore no armor, and were trained for long-distance running. Horses were magnificent beasts; the Sunmaker famously had used an entire company of cavalry. Over a short distance, their speed and maneuverability had been legendary.

Those possibilities intrigued Dalinar. Could men be trained to fire bows from horseback? How devastating would that be? What about a charge of horses bearing men with spears, like the legends spoke of during the Shin invasion?

For today, however, he didn’t need horses. Men were better suited for long-distance running, not to mention being much better at scrambling over broken hillsides and uneven rocks. This company of elites could outrun any harrying force he’d yet to meet. Though archers, they were proficient with the sword. Their training was unparalleled, and their stamina legendary.

Dalinar hadn’t trained with them personally, as he didn’t have time to practice running thirty miles a day. Fortunately, he had Plate to make up the difference. Clad in his armor, he led the charging force over scrub and rock, past reeds that released hairlike inner strands to shiver on the breeze until he drew near. Grass, tree, and weed took fright at his approach.

Two fires burned inside him. First the energy of the Plate, lending power to each step. The second fire was the Thrill. Sadeas, a traitor? Impossible. He had supported Gavilar all along. Dalinar trusted him.

And yet …

I thought myself trustworthy, Dalinar thought, leading the charge down a hillside, a hundred men flooding behind him. Yet I almost turned on Gavilar.

He would see for himself. He would find out whether this “caravan” that had brought supplies to the Rift actually had a Shardbearer in its ranks or not. But the possibility that he had been betrayed—that Sadeas could have been working against them all along—drove Dalinar to a kind of focused madness. A clarity only the Thrill bestowed.

It was the focus of a man, his sword, and the blood he would spill.

The Thrill seemed to transform within him as he ran, soaking into his tiring muscles, saturating him. It became a power unto itself. So, when they crested a hillside some distance south of the Rift, he felt somehow more energetic than when he’d left.

As his company of elites jogged up, Dalinar pulled to a stop, armored feet grinding on stone. Ahead, down the hill and at the mouth of a canyon, a frantic group was scrambling to arms. The caravan. Its scouts must have spotted the approach of Dalinar’s force.

They’d been setting up camp, but left their tents, running for the canyon, where they’d be able to avoid being flanked. Dalinar roared, summoning his Blade, ignoring the fatigue of his men as he dashed down the hillside.

The soldiers wore forest green and white. Sadeas’s colors.

Dalinar reached the bottom of the hill and stormed through the now-abandoned camp. He swept past the stragglers, slicing out with Oathbringer, dropping them, their eyes burning.

Wait.

His momentum wouldn’t let him stop now. Where was the enemy Shardbearer?

Something is wrong.

Dalinar led his men into the canyon after the soldiers, following the enemy along a wide path up the side. He raised Oathbringer high as he ran.

Why would they put on Sadeas’s colors if they’re a secret envoy bringing contraband supplies?

Dalinar stopped in place, his soldiers swarming around him. Their path had taken them about fifty feet up from the bottom of the canyon, on the south side of a steep incline. He saw no sign of a Shardbearer as the enemy gathered above. And … those uniforms …

He blinked. That … that was wrong.

He shouted an order to pull back, but the sound of his voice was overwhelmed by a sudden roar. A sound like thunder, accompanied by a dreadful clatter of rock against rock. The ground quivered, and he turned in horror to find a landslide tumbling down the steep side of the ravine to his right—directly above where he had led his men.

He had a fraction of a moment to take it in before the rocks pounded him in a terrible crash.

Everything spun, then grew black. Still he was pounded, rolled, crushed. An explosion of molten sparks briefly flashed in his eyes, and something hard smacked him on the head.

Finally it ended. He found himself lying in blackness, his head pounding, thick warm blood running down his face and dripping from his chin. He could feel the blood, but not see it. Had he been blinded?

His cheek was pressed against a rock. No. He wasn’t blind; he’d been buried. And his helm had shattered. He shifted with a groan, and something illuminated the stones around his head. Stormlight seeping from his breastplate.

Somehow he’d survived the landslide. He lay facedown, prone, buried. He shifted again, and from the corner of his eye saw a rock sink, threatening to crush sideways into his skull. He lay still, his head thundering with pain. He flexed his left hand and found that gauntlet broken, his forearm plate too. But his right-hand armor still worked.

This … this was a trap.…

Sadeas was not a traitor. This had been designed by the Rift and its highlord to lure Dalinar in, then drop stones to crush him. Cowards. They’d tried something like that in Rathalas long ago too. He relaxed, groaning softly.

No. Can’t lie here.

Maybe he could pretend to be dead. That sounded so appealing he closed his eyes and started to drift.

A fire ignited inside him.

You have been betrayed, Dalinar. Listen. He heard voices—men picking through the wreckage of the rockslide. He could make out their nasal accent. Rifters.

Tanalan sent you here to die!

Dalinar sneered, opening his eyes. Those men wouldn’t let him hide in this tomb of stone, feigning death. He carried Shards. They would find him to recover their prize.

He braced himself, using his Plated shoulder to keep the rock from rolling against his exposed head, but did not otherwise move. Eventually the men above started speaking eagerly; from their words, they’d found his armor’s cape sticking out through the stone, the glyphs of khokh and linil stark on the blue background.

Stones scraped, and the burden upon him lightened. The Thrill built to a crescendo. The stone near his head rolled back.

Go.

Dalinar heaved with his Plated feet and shifted a boulder with his still-armored hand, opening enough space that he could stand up straight. He ripped free of the tomb and stumbled upright into open air, stones clattering.

The Rifters cursed and scrambled backward as he leaped out of the hole, boots grinding against stones. Dalinar growled, summoning his Blade.

His armor was in worse shape than he’d assumed. Sluggish. Broken in four separate places.

All around him, Tanalan’s men’s eyes seemed to glow. They gathered and grinned at him; he could see the Thrill thick in their expressions. His Blade and leaking Plate reflected in their dark eyes.

Blood streaming down the side of his face, Dalinar grinned back at them.

They rushed to attack.

Dalinar saw only red.

He partially came to himself as he found himself pounding a man’s head repeatedly against the stones. Behind him lay a pile of corpses with burned eyes, piled high around the hole where Dalinar had stood, fighting against them.

He dropped the head of the corpse in his hands and breathed out, feeling … What did he feel? Numb, suddenly. Pain was a distant thing. Even anger was nebulous. He looked down at his hands. Why was he using those, and not his Shardblade?

He turned to the side, where Oathbringer protruded from a rock where he’d stabbed it. The … gemstone on the pommel was cracked. That was right. He couldn’t dismiss it; something about the crack had interfered.

He stumbled to his feet, looking around for more foes, but none came to challenge him. His armor … someone had broken the breastplate while fighting him, and he felt at a stab wound on his chest. He barely remembered that.

The sun was low on the horizon, plunging the canyon into shadows. Around him, discarded bits of clothing flapped in the breeze, and bodies lay still. Not a sound, not even cremling scavengers.

Drained, he bound the worst of his wounds, then grabbed Oathbringer and set it on his shoulder. Never had a Shardblade felt so heavy.

He started walking.

Along the way, he discarded pieces of Shardplate, which grew too heavy. He’d lost blood. Far too much.

He focused on the steps. One after another.

Momentum. A fight was all about momentum.

He didn’t dare take the obvious route, in case he encountered more Rifters. He crossed through the wilderness, vines writhing beneath his feet and rockbuds sprouting after he passed.

The Thrill returned to urge him on. For this walk was a fight. A battle. Night fell, and he threw off his last piece of Shardplate, leaving only the neck brace. They could regrow the rest of it from that, if they had to.

Keep. Moving.

In that darkness, shadowed figures seemed to accompany him. Armies made of red mist at the corners of his vision, charging forces that fell to dust and then sprouted from shadow again, like surging ocean waves in a constant state of disintegration and rebirth. Not just men, but eyeless horses. Animals locked in struggle, stifling the life from one another. Shadows of death and conflict to propel him through the night.

He hiked for an eternity. Eternity was nothing when time had no meaning. He was actually surprised when he approached the light of the Rift, from torches held by soldiers on the walls. His navigation by the moons and stars had been successful.

He stalked through the darkness toward his own camp on the field. There was another army here. Sadeas’s actual soldiers; they’d arrived ahead of schedule. Another few hours, and Tanalan’s ploy wouldn’t have worked.

Dalinar dragged Oathbringer behind him; it made a soft scraping sound as it cut a line in the stone. He numbly heard soldiers talking by the bonfire ahead, and one called something out. Dalinar ignored them, each step relentless, as he passed into their light. A pair of young soldiers in blue crowed their challenges until cutting off and lowering spears, gaping.

“Stormfather,” one of them said, stumbling back. “Kelek and the Almighty himself!”

Dalinar continued through camp. Noise stirred at his passing, men crying of visions of the dead and of Voidbringers. He made for his command tent. The eternity it took to get there seemed the same length as the others. How could he cross so many miles in the same time as it took to go the few feet to a simple tent? Dalinar shook his head, seeing red at the sides of his vision.

Words broke through the canvas of the tent. “Impossible. The men are spooked. They … No, it’s simply not possible.”

The flaps burst apart, revealing a man with fine clothing and wavy hair. Sadeas gaped, then stumbled to the side, holding the flap for Dalinar, who did not break stride. He walked straight in, Oathbringer slicing a ribbon in the ground.

Inside, generals and officers gathered by the grim light of a few sphere lanterns. Evi, comforted by Brightness Kalami, was weeping, though Ialai studied the table full of maps. All eyes turned toward Dalinar.

“How?” Teleb asked. “Blackthorn? We sent a team of scouts to inform you as soon as Tanalan turned on us and cast our soldiers off his walls. Our force reported all men lost, an ambush…”

Dalinar hefted Oathbringer and slammed it down into the stone ground beside him, then sighed at finally being able to release the burden. He placed his palms on the sides of the battle table, hands crusted in blood. His arms were covered in it too.

“You sent the same scouts,” he whispered, “who first spied on the caravan, and reported seeing a Shardbearer leading it?”

“Yes,” Teleb said.

“Traitors,” Dalinar said. “They’re working with Tanalan.” He couldn’t have known that Dalinar would parley with him. Instead, the man had somehow bribed away members of the army, and had intended to use their reports to coax Dalinar into a hurried ride to the south. Into a trap.

It had all been set in motion before Dalinar had spoken to Tanalan. Planned well in advance.

Teleb barked out orders for the scouts to be imprisoned. Dalinar leaned down over the battle maps on the table. “This is a map for a siege,” he whispered.

“We…” Teleb looked to Sadeas. “We figured that the king would want time to come down himself. To, um, avenge you, Brightlord.”

“Too slow,” Dalinar said, his voice ragged.

“Highprince Sadeas proposed … another option,” Teleb said. “But the king—”

Dalinar looked to Sadeas.

“They used my name to betray you,” Sadeas said, then spat to the side. “We will suffer rebellions like this time and time again unless they fear us, Dalinar.”

Dalinar nodded slowly. “They must bleed,” he whispered. “I want them to suffer for this. Men, women, children. They must know the punishment for broken oaths. Immediately.”

“Dalinar?” Evi stood up. “Husband?” She stepped forward, toward the table.

Then he turned toward her, and she stopped. Her unusual, pale Westerner skin grew even more starkly white. She stepped backward, pulling her hands toward her chest, and gaped at him, horrified, fearspren growing up from the ground around her.

Dalinar glanced toward a sphere lantern, which had a polished metal surface. The man who looked back seemed more Voidbringer than man, face crusted over with blackened blood, hair matted with it, blue eyes wide, jaw clenched. He was sliced with what seemed to be a hundred wounds, his padded uniform in tatters.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Evi said. “Rest. Sleep, Dalinar. Think about this. Give it a few days.”

So tired …

“The entire kingdom thinks us weak, Dalinar,” Sadeas whispered. “We took too long to put this rebellion down. You have never listened to me before, but listen now. You want to prevent this sort of thing from happening again? You must punish them. Every one.”

“Punish them…” Dalinar said, the Thrill rising again. Pain. Anger. Humiliation. He pressed his hands against the map table to steady himself. “The Soulcaster that my brother sent. She can make two things?”

“Grain and oil,” Teleb said.

“Good. Set her to work.”

“More food supplies?”

“No, oil. As much as we have gemstones for. Oh, and someone take my wife to her tent so she may recover from her unwarranted grief. Everyone else, gather round. In the morning, we make Rathalas an example. I promised Tanalan that his widows would weep for what I did here, but that is too merciful for what they’ve done to me.

“I intend to so thoroughly ruin this place that for ten generations, nobody will dare build here for fear of the spirits who will haunt it. We will make a pyre of this city, and there shall be no weeping for its passing, for none will remain to weep.”

76. An Animal

Dalinar agreed to change clothing. He washed his face and arms, and let a surgeon look at his wounds.

The red mist was still there, coloring his vision. He would not sleep. It wouldn’t let him.

About an hour after he’d arrived in camp, he trudged back to the command tent, cleaned but not particularly refreshed.

The generals had drawn up a new set of battle plans to take the city walls, as instructed by Sadeas. Dalinar inspected and made a few changes, but told them to suspend making plans to march down into the city and clear it. He had something else in mind.

“Brightlord!” a messenger woman said, arriving at the tent. She stepped in. “An envoy is leaving the city. Flying the flag of truce.”

“Shoot them dead,” Dalinar said calmly.

“Sir?”

“Arrows, woman,” Dalinar said. “Kill anyone who comes out of the city, and leave their bodies to rot.”

“Um, yes, Brightlord.” The messenger ducked away.

Dalinar looked up toward Sadeas, who still wore his Shardplate, glittering in the spherelight. Sadeas nodded in approval, then gestured to the side. He wanted to speak in private.

Dalinar left the table. He should hurt more. Shouldn’t he? Storms … he was so numb, he could barely feel anything, aside from that burning within, simmering deep down. He stepped with Sadeas out of the tent.

“I’ve been able to stall the scribes,” Sadeas whispered, “as you ordered. Gavilar doesn’t know that you live. His orders from before were to wait and lay siege.”

“My return supersedes his distant orders,” Dalinar said. “The men will know that. Even Gavilar wouldn’t disagree.”

“Yes, but why keep him ignorant of your arrival?”

The last moon was close to setting. Not long until morning. “What do you think of my brother, Sadeas?”

“He’s exactly what we need,” Sadeas said. “Hard enough to lead a war; soft enough to be beloved during peace. He has foresight and wisdom.”

“Do you think he could do what needs to be done here?”

Sadeas fell silent. “No,” he finally said. “No, not now. I wonder if you can either. This will be more than just death. It will be complete destruction.”

“A lesson,” Dalinar whispered.

“A display. Tanalan’s plan was clever, but risky. He knew his chances of winning here depended upon removing you and your Shards from the battle.” He narrowed his eyes. “You thought those soldiers were mine. You actually believed I’d betray Gavilar.”

“I worried.”

“Then know this, Dalinar,” Sadeas said, low, his voice like stone grinding stone. “I would cut out my own heart before betraying Gavilar. I have no interest in being king—it’s a job with little praise and even less amusement. I mean for this kingdom to stand for centuries.”

“Good,” Dalinar said.

“Honestly, I worried that you would betray him.”

“I almost did, once. I stopped myself.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dalinar said. “There has to be someone in this kingdom capable of doing what needs to be done, and it can’t be the man sitting on the throne. Continue to hold the scribes back; it will be better if my brother can reasonably disavow what we’re about to do.”

“Something will leak out soon,” Sadeas said. “Between our two armies, there are too many spanreeds. Storming things are getting so cheap, most of the officers can afford to buy a pair to manage their households from a distance.”

Dalinar strode back into the tent, Sadeas following. Oathbringer still sat where he’d stuck it into the stones, though an armorer had replaced the gemstone for him.

He pulled the Blade from the rock. “Time to attack.”

Amaram turned from where he stood with the other generals. “Now, Dalinar? At night?”

“The bonfires on the wall should be enough.”

“To take the wall fortifications, yes,” Amaram said. “But Brightlord, I don’t relish fighting down into those vertical streets in the night.”

Dalinar shared a look with Sadeas. “Fortunately, you won’t have to. Send the word for the men to prepare the oil and flaming brands. We march.”

Highmarshal Perethom took the orders and began organizing specifics. Dalinar lifted Oathbringer on his shoulder. Time to bring you home.

In under a half hour, men charged the walls. No Shardbearers led this time; Dalinar was too weak, and his Plate was in shambles. Sadeas never did like exposing himself too early, and Teleb couldn’t rush in alone.

They did it the mundane way, sending men to be crushed by stones or impaled by arrows as they carried ladders. They broke through eventually, securing a section of the wall in a furious, bloody fight.

The Thrill was an unsatisfied lump inside Dalinar, but he was wrung out, worn down. So he continued to wait until finally, Teleb and Sadeas joined the fight and routed the last of the defenders, sending them down from the walls toward the chasm of the city itself.

“I need a squad of elites,” Dalinar said softly to a nearby messenger. “And my own barrel of oil. Have them meet me inside the walls.”

“Yes, Brightlord,” the young boy said, then ran off.

Dalinar strode across the field, passing fallen men bloody and dead. They’d died almost in ranks where waves of arrows had struck. He also passed a cluster of corpses in white, where the envoy had been slaughtered earlier. Warmed by the rising sun, he passed through the now-open gates of the wall and entered the ring of stone that surrounded the Rift.

Sadeas met him there, faceplate up, cheeks even redder than normal from exertion. “They fought like Voidbringers. More vicious than last time, I’d say.”

“They know what is coming,” Dalinar said, walking toward the cliff edge. He stopped halfway there.

“We checked it for a trap this time,” Sadeas noted.

Dalinar continued forward. The Rifters had gotten the better of him twice now. He should have learned the first time. He stopped at the edge of the cliff, looking down at a city built on platforms, rising up along the widening sides of the rift of stone. It was little wonder they thought so highly of themselves as to resist. Their city was grand, a monument of human ingenuity and grit.

“Burn it,” Dalinar said.

Archers gathered with arrows ready to ignite, while other men rolled up barrels of oil and pitch to give extra fuel.

“There are thousands of people in there, sir,” Teleb said softly from his side. “Tens of thousands.”

“This kingdom must know the price of rebellion. We make a statement today.”

“Obey or die?” Teleb asked.

“The same deal I offered you, Teleb. You were smart enough to take it.”

“And the common people in there, the ones who didn’t get a chance to choose a side?”

Sadeas snorted from nearby. “We will prevent more deaths in the future by letting every brightlord in this kingdom know the punishment for disobedience.” He took a report from an aide, then stepped up to Dalinar. “You were right about the scouts who turned traitor. We bribed one to turn on the others, and will execute the rest. The plan was apparently to separate you from the army, then hopefully kill you. Even if you were simply delayed, the Rift was hoping their lies would prompt your army into a reckless attack without you.”

“They weren’t counting on your swift arrival,” Dalinar said.

“Or your tenacity.”

The soldiers unplugged barrels of oil, then began dropping them down, soaking the upper levels of the city. Flaming brands followed—starting struts and walkways on fire. The very foundations of this city were flammable.

Tanalan’s soldiers tried to organize a fight back out of the Rift, but they’d surrendered the high ground, expecting Dalinar to do as he had before, conquering and controlling.

He watched as the fires spread, flamespren rising in them, seeming larger and more … angry than normal. He then walked back—leaving a solemn Teleb—to gather his remaining elites. Captainlord Kadash had fifty for him, along with two barrels of oil.

“Follow,” Dalinar said, walking around the Rift on its east side, where the fracture was narrow enough to cross on a short bridge.

Screams below. Then cries of pain. Calls for mercy. People flooded from buildings, shouting in terror, fleeing on walkways and steps toward the basin below. Many buildings burned, trapping others inside.

Dalinar led his squad along the northern rim of the Rift until they reached a certain location. His armies waited here to kill any soldiers who tried to break out, but the enemy had concentrated their assault on the other side, then been mostly beaten back. The fires hadn’t reached up here yet, though Sadeas’s archers had killed several dozen civilians who had tried to flee in this direction.

For now, the wooden ramp down into the city was clear. Dalinar led his group down one level to a location he remembered so well: the hidden door set into the wall. It was metal now, guarded by a pair of nervous Rifter soldiers.

Kadash’s men shot them down with shortbows. That annoyed Dalinar; all of this fighting, and nothing with which to feed the Thrill. He stepped over one of the corpses, then tried the door, which was no longer hidden. It was still locked tight. Tanalan had decided to go with security instead of secrets, this time.

Unfortunately for them, Oathbringer had come home. Dalinar easily cut off the steel hinges. He stepped back as the door slammed forward onto the walkway, shaking the wood.

“Light those,” he said, pointing to the barrels. “Roll them down and burn out anyone hiding inside.”

The men hurried to obey, and soon the tunnel of rock had fitful black smoke pouring from it. Nobody tried to flee, though he thought he heard cries of pain inside. Dalinar watched as long as he could, until soon the smoke and heat drove him back.

The Rift behind him was becoming a pit of darkness and fire. Dalinar retreated up the ramp to the stones above. Archers lit the final walkways and ramps behind him. It would be long before people decided to resettle here. Highstorms were one thing, but there was a more terrible force upon the land. And it carried a Shardblade.

Those screams … Dalinar passed lines of soldiers who waited along the northern rim in silent horror; many wouldn’t have been with Dalinar and Gavilar during the early years of their conquest, when they’d allowed pillaging and ransacking of cities. And for those who did remember … well, he’d often found an excuse to stop things like this before.

He drew his lips to a line, and shoved down the Thrill. He would not let himself enjoy this. That single sliver of decency he could keep back.

“Brightlord!” a soldier said, waving to him. “Brightlord, you must see this!”

Just below the cliff here—one tier down into the city—was a beautiful white building. A palace. Farther out along the walkways, a group of people fought to reach the building. The wooden walkways were on fire, and preventing their access. Shocked, Dalinar recognized Tanalan the younger from their encounter earlier.

Trying to get into his home? Dalinar thought. Figures darkened the building’s upper windows; a woman and children. No. Trying to get to his family.

Tanalan hadn’t been hiding in the saferoom after all.

“Throw a rope,” Dalinar said. “Bring Tanalan up here, but shoot down the bodyguards.”

The smoke billowing out of the Rift was growing thick, lit red by the fires. Dalinar coughed, then stepped back as his men let down a rope to the platform below, a section that wasn’t burning. Tanalan hesitated, then took it, letting Dalinar’s men haul him up. The bodyguards were sent arrows when they tried to climb up a nearby burning ramp.

“Please,” Tanalan said, clothing ashen from the smoke, as he was hauled up over the stone rim. “My family. Please.”

Dalinar could hear them screaming below. He whispered an order, and his elites pushed back the regular Kholin troops from the area, opening up a wide half-circle against the burning rift, where only Dalinar and his closest men were able to observe the captive.

Tanalan slumped on the ground. “Please…”

“I,” Dalinar said softly, “am an animal.”

“What—”

“An animal,” Dalinar said, “reacts as it is prodded. You whip it, and it becomes savage. With an animal, you can start a tempest. Trouble is, once it’s gone feral, you can’t just whistle it back to you.”

“Blackthorn!” Tanalan screamed. “Please! My children.”

“I made a mistake years ago,” Dalinar said. “I will not be so foolish again.”

And yet … those screams.

Dalinar’s soldiers seized Tanalan tightly as Dalinar turned from the man and walked back to the pit of fire. Sadeas had just arrived with a company of his own men, but Dalinar ignored them, Oathbringer still held against his shoulder. Smoke stung Dalinar’s nose, his eyes watering. He couldn’t see across the Rift to the rest of his armies; the air warped with heat, colored red.

It was like looking into Damnation itself.

Dalinar released a long breath, suddenly feeling his exhaustion even more deeply. “It is enough,” he said, turning toward Sadeas. “Let the rest of the people of the city escape out the mouth of the canyon below. We have sent our signal.”

“What?” Sadeas said, hiking over. “Dalinar—”

A loud series of cracks interrupted him. An entire section of the city nearby collapsed into the flames. The palace—and its occupants—crashed down with it, a tempest of sparks and splintering wood.

“No!” Tanalan shouted. “NO!”

“Dalinar…” Sadeas said. “I prepared a battalion below, with archers, per your orders.”

“My orders?”

“You said to ‘Kill anyone who comes out of the city and leave their bodies to rot.’ I had men stationed below; they’ve launched arrows in at the city struts, burned the walkways leading down. This city burns from both directions—from underneath and from above. We can’t stop it now.”

Wood cracked as more sections of city collapsed. The Thrill surged, and Dalinar pushed it away. “We’ve gone too far.”

“Nonsense! Our lesson won’t mean much if people can merely walk away.” Sadeas glanced toward Tanalan. “Last loose end is this one. We don’t want him getting away again.” He reached for his sword.

“I’ll do it,” Dalinar said. Though the concept of more death was starting to sicken him, he steeled himself. This was the man who had betrayed him.

Dalinar stepped closer. To his credit, Tanalan tried to leap to his feet and fight. Several elites shoved the traitor back down to the ground, though Captainlord Kadash himself was just standing at the side of the city, looking down at the destruction. Dalinar could feel that heat, so terrible. It mirrored a sense within him. The Thrill … incredibly … was not satisfied. Still it thirsted. It didn’t seem … didn’t seem it could be satiated.

Tanalan collapsed, blubbering.

“You should not have betrayed me,” Dalinar whispered, raising Oathbringer. “At least this time, you didn’t hide in your hole. I don’t know who you let take cover there, but know they are dead. I took care of that with barrels of fire.”

Tanalan blinked, then started laughing with a frantic, crazed air. “You don’t know? How could you not know? But you killed our messengers. You poor fool. You poor, stupid fool.”

Dalinar seized him by the chin, though the man was still held by his soldiers. “What?”

“She came to us,” Tanalan said. “To plead. How could you have missed her? Do you track your own family so poorly? The hole you burned … we don’t hide there anymore. Everyone knows about it. Now it’s a prison.”

Ice washed through Dalinar, and he grabbed Tanalan by the throat and held, Oathbringer slipping from his fingers. He strangled the man, all the while demanding that he retract what he’d said.

Tanalan died with a smile on his lips. Dalinar stepped back, suddenly feeling too weak to stand. Where was the Thrill to bolster him? “Go back,” he shouted at his elites. “Search that hole. Go…” He trailed off.

Kadash was on his knees, looking woozy, a pile of vomit on the rock before him. Some elites ran to try to do as Dalinar said, but they shied away from the Rift—the heat rising from the burning city was incredible.

Dalinar roared, standing, pushing toward the flames. However, the fire was too intense. Where he had once seen himself as an unstoppable force, he now had to admit exactly how small he was. Insignificant. Meaningless.

Once it’s gone feral, you can’t just whistle it back to you.

He fell to his knees, and remained there until his soldiers pulled him—limp—away from the heat and carried him to his camp.

Six hours later, Dalinar stood with hands clasped behind his back—partially to hide how badly they were shaking—and stared at a body on the table, covered in a white sheet.

Behind him in the tent, some of his scribes whispered. A sound like swishing swords on the practice field. Teleb’s wife, Kalami, led the discussion; she thought that Evi must have defected. What else could explain why the burned corpse of a highprince’s wife had been found in an enemy safehouse?

It fit the narrative. Showing uncharacteristic determination, Evi had drugged the guard protecting her. She’d snuck away in the night. The scribes wondered how long Evi had been a traitor, and if she’d helped recruit the group of scouts who had betrayed Dalinar.

He stepped forward, resting his fingers on the smooth, too-white sheet. Fool woman. The scribes didn’t know Evi well enough. She hadn’t been a traitor—she’d gone to the Rift to plead for them to surrender. She’d seen in Dalinar’s eyes that he wouldn’t spare them. So, Almighty help her, she’d gone to do what she could.

Dalinar barely had the strength to stand. The Thrill had abandoned him, and that left him broken, pained.

He pulled back the corner of the sheet. The left side of Evi’s face was scorched, nauseating, but the right side had been down toward the stone. It was oddly untouched.

This is your fault, he thought at her. How dare you do this? Stupid, frustrating woman.

This was not his fault, not his responsibility.

“Dalinar,” Kalami said, stepping up. “You should rest.”

“She didn’t betray us,” Dalinar said firmly.

“I’m sure eventually we’ll know what—”

“She did not betray us,” Dalinar snapped. “Keep the discovery of her body quiet, Kalami. Tell the people … tell them my wife was slain by an assassin last night. I will swear the few elites who know to secrecy. Let everyone think she died a hero, and that the destruction of the city today was done in retribution.”

Dalinar set his jaw. Earlier today, the soldiers of his army—so carefully trained over the years to resist pillaging and the slaughter of civilians—had burned a city to the ground. It would ease their consciences to think that first, the highlady had been murdered.

Kalami smiled at him, a knowing—even self-important—smile. His lie would serve a second purpose. As long as Kalami and the head scribes thought they knew a secret, they’d be less likely to dig for the true answer.

Not my fault.

“Rest, Dalinar,” Kalami said. “You are in pain now, but as the highstorm must pass, all mortal agonies will fade.”

Dalinar left the corpse to the ministrations of others. As he departed, he strangely heard the screams of those people in the Rift. He stopped, wondering what it was. Nobody else seemed to notice.

Yes, that was distant screaming. In his head, maybe? They all seemed children to his ears. The ones he’d abandoned to the flames. A chorus of the innocent pleading for help, for mercy.

Evi’s voice joined them.

Page from Mythica: The Taker of Secrets

77. Stormshelter

Kaladin dashed across the street. “Wait!” he shouted. “One more here!”

Ahead, a man with a thin mustache struggled to close a thick wooden door. It stuck partway open, however, giving just enough time for Kaladin to slip through.

The man swore at him, then pulled the door shut. Made of dark stumpweight wood, it made a muffled thunk. The man did up the locks, then stepped back and let three younger men place a thick bar into the settings.

“Cutting that close, armsman,” the mustachioed man said, noting the Wall Guard patch on Kaladin’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Kaladin said, handing the man a few spheres as a cover charge. “But the storm is still a few minutes away.”

“Can’t be too careful with this new storm,” the man said. “Be glad the door got stuck.”

Syl sat on the hinges, legs hanging over the sides. Kaladin doubted it had been luck; sticking people’s shoes to the stone was a classic windspren trick. Still, he did understand the doorman’s hesitance. Everstorms didn’t quite match up with scholarly projections. The previous one had arrived hours earlier than anyone had guessed it would. Fortunately, they tended to blow in slower than highstorms. If you knew to watch the sky, there was time to find shelter.

Kaladin ran his hand through his hair and started deeper into the winehouse. This was one of those fashionable places that—while technically a stormshelter—was used only by rich people who had come to spend the storm enjoying themselves. It had a large common room and thick walls of stone blocks. No windows, of course. A bartender kept people liquored near the back, and a number of booths ringed the perimeter.

He spotted Shallan and Adolin sitting in a booth at the side. She wore her own face, but Adolin looked like Meleran Khal, a tall, bald man around Adolin’s height. Kaladin lingered, watching Shallan laugh at something Adolin said, then poke him—with her safehand—in the shoulder. She seemed completely enthralled by him. And good for her. Everyone deserved something to give them light, these days. But … what about the glances she shot him on occasion, times when she didn’t quite seem to be the same person? A different smile, an almost wicked look to her eyes …

You’re seeing things, he thought to himself. He strode forward and caught their attention, settling into the booth with a sigh. He was off duty, and free to visit the city. He’d told the others he’d find his own shelter for the storm, and only had to be back in time for evening post-storm patrol.

“Took you long enough, bridgeboy,” Adolin said.

“Lost track of time,” Kaladin said, tapping the table. He hated being in stormshelters. They felt too much like prisons.

Outside, thunder announced the Everstorm’s arrival. Most people in the city would be inside their homes, the refugees instead in public stormshelters.

This for-pay shelter was sparsely occupied, only a few of the tables or booths in use. That would give privacy to talk, fortunately, but it didn’t bode well for the proprietor. People didn’t have spheres to waste.

“Where’s Elhokar?” Kaladin asked.

“Elhokar is working on last-minute plans through the storm,” Adolin said. “He’s decided to reveal himself tonight to the lighteyes he’s chosen. And … he’s done a good job, Kal. We’ll at least have some troops because of this. Fewer than I’d like, but something.”

“And maybe another Knight Radiant?” Shallan asked, glancing at Kaladin. “What have you found?”

He quickly caught them up on what he’d learned: The Wall Guard might have a Soulcaster, and was definitely producing food somehow. It had seized emerald stores in the city—a fact he’d recently discovered.

“Azure is … tough to read,” Kaladin finished. “She visits the barracks every night, but never talks about herself. Men report seeing her sword cut through stone, but it has no gemstone. I think it might be an Honorblade, like the weapon of the Assassin in White.”

“Huh,” Adolin said, sitting back. “You know, that would explain a lot.”

“My platoon has dinner with her tonight, after evening patrol,” Kaladin said. “I intend to see what I can learn.”

A serving girl came for orders, and Adolin bought them wine. He knew about lighteyed drinks and—without needing to be told—ordered something without a touch of alcohol for Kaladin. He’d be on duty later. Adolin did get Shallan a cup of violet, to Kaladin’s surprise.

As the serving girl left with the order, Adolin reached out toward Kaladin. “Let me see your sword.”

“My sword?” Kaladin said, glancing toward Syl, who was huddling near the back of the booth and humming softly to herself. A way of ignoring the sounds of the Everstorm, which rumbled beyond the stones.

“Not that sword,” Adolin said. “Your side sword.”

Kaladin glanced down to where the sword stuck out beside his seat. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing the thing, which was a relief. The first few days, he’d bumped the sheath into everything. He unbuckled it and set it on the table for Adolin.

“Good blade,” the prince said. “Well maintained. It was in this condition when they assigned it to you?”

Kaladin nodded. Adolin drew it and held it up.

“It’s a little small,” Shallan noted.

“It’s a one-handed sword, Shallan. Close-range infantry weapon. A longer blade would be impractical.”

“Longer … like Shardblades?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, yes, they break all kinds of rules.” Adolin waved the sword through a few motions, then sheathed it. “I like this highmarshal of yours.”

“It’s not even her weapon,” Kaladin said, taking it back.

“You boys done comparing your swords?” Shallan asked. “Because I’ve found something.” She thumped a large book onto the table. “One of my contacts finally tracked down a copy of Hessi’s Mythica. It’s a newer book, and has been poorly received. It attributes distinct personalities to the Unmade.”

Adolin lifted the cover, peeking in. “So … anything about swords in it?”

“Oh hush,” she said, and batted his arm in a playful—and somewhat nauseating—way.

Yes, it was uncomfortable to watch the two of them. Kaladin liked them both … just not together. He forced himself to look around the room, which was occupied by lighteyes trying to drink away the sounds of the storm. He tried not to think of refugees who would be packed into stuffy public shelters, clutching their meager possessions and hoping some of what they were forced to leave behind would survive the storm.

“The book,” Shallan said, “claims there were nine Unmade. That matches the vision Dalinar saw, though other reports speak of ten Unmade. They’re likely ancient spren, primal, from the days before human society and civilization.

“The book claims the nine rampaged during the Desolations, but says not all were destroyed at Aharietiam. The author insists that some are active today; I find her vindicated—obviously—by what we’ve experienced.”

“And there’s one of these in the city,” Adolin said.

“I think…” Shallan said. “I think there might be two, Adolin. Sja-anat, the Taker of Secrets, is one. Again, Dalinar’s visions mention her. Sja-anat’s touch corrupted other spren—and we’re seeing the effects of that here.”

“And the other one?” Adolin asked.

“Ashertmarn,” Shallan said softly. She slipped a little knife from her satchel and began to absently carve at the top of the table. “The Heart of the Revel. The book has less to say on him, though it speaks of how he leads people to indulge in excess.”

“Two Unmade,” Kaladin said. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I can be. Wit confirmed the second, and the way the queen acted leading up to the riots seems an obvious sign. As for the Taker of Secrets, we can see the corrupted spren ourselves.”

“How do we fight two?” Kaladin asked.

“How do we fight one?” Adolin said. “In the tower, we didn’t so much fight the thing as frighten it off. Shallan can’t even say how she did that. What does the book say about fighting them?”

“Nothing.” Shallan shrugged, blowing at her little carving on the table. It was of a corrupted gloryspren in the shape of a cube, which another patron had attracted. “The book says if you see a spren the wrong color, you’re supposed to immediately move to another town.”

“There’s kind of an army in the way,” Kaladin said.

“Yes, amazingly your stench hasn’t cleared them out yet.” Shallan started leafing through her book.

Kaladin frowned. Comments like that were part of what confused him about Shallan. She seemed perfectly friendly one moment, then she’d snap at him the next, while pretending it was merely part of normal conversation. But she didn’t talk like that to others, not even in jest.

What is wrong with you, woman? he thought. They’d shared something intimate, in the chasms back on the Shattered Plains. A highstorm huddled together, and words. Was she embarrassed by that? Was that the reason she snapped at him sometimes?

If that was so, how did one explain the other times, when she watched him and grinned? When she winked, in a sly way?

“Hessi reports stories of the Unmade not only corrupting spren, but corrupting people,” Shallan was saying. “Maybe that’s what’s happening with the palace. We’ll know more after infiltrating the cult tonight.”

“I don’t like you going alone,” Adolin said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have my team.”

“One washwoman and two deserters,” Kaladin said. “If Gaz is anything to judge by, Shallan, you shouldn’t put too much trust in those men.”

Shallan raised her chin. “At least my soldiers knew when to get away from the warcamps, as opposed to just standing around letting people fling arrows at them.”

“We trust you, Shallan,” Adolin said, eyeing Kaladin as if to say, Drop it. “And we really need a look at that Oathgate.”

“What if I can’t open it?” Shallan asked. “What then?”

“We have to retreat back to the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said.

“Elhokar won’t leave his family.”

“Then Drehy, Skar, and I rush the palace,” Kaladin said. “We fly in at night, enter through the upper balcony, grab the queen and the young prince. We do it all right before the highstorm comes, then the lot of us fly back to Urithiru.”

“And leave the city to fall,” Adolin said, drawing his lips to a line.

“Can the city hold?” Shallan asked. “Maybe until we can get back with a real army, marched out here?”

“That would take months,” Adolin said. “And the Wall Guard is … what? Four battalions?”

“Five in total,” Kaladin said.

“Five thousand men?” Shallan asked. “So few?”

“That’s large for a city garrison,” Adolin said. “The point of fortifications is to let a small number hold against a much larger force. But the enemy has an unexpected advantage. Voidbringers who can fly, and a city infested with their allies.”

“Yeah,” Kaladin said. “The Wall Guard is earnest, but they won’t be able to withstand a dedicated assault. There are tens of thousands of parshmen out there—and they’re close to attacking. We don’t have much time left. The Fused will sweep in to secure portions of the wall, and their armies will follow. If we’re going to hold this city, we’ll need Radiants and Shardbearers to even the odds.”

Kaladin and Shallan shared a look. Their Radiants were not a battle-ready group, not yet. Storms. His men had barely taken to the skies. How could they be expected to fight those creatures who flew so easily upon the winds? How could he protect this city and protect his men?

They fell silent, listening to the room shake with the sounds of thunder outside. Kaladin finished his drink, wishing it were one of Rock’s concoctions instead, and flicked away an odd cremling that he spotted clinging to the side of the bench. It had a multitude of legs, and a bulbous body, with a strange tan pattern on its back.

Disgusting. Even with the stresses to the city, the proprietor could at least keep this place clean.

Once the storm finally blew itself out, Shallan stepped from the winehouse, holding Adolin’s arm. She watched Kaladin hurry off toward the barracks for evening patrol.

She should probably be equally eager to get going. She still had to steal some food today—enough to satisfy the Cult of Moments when she approached them later in the evening. That should be easy enough. Vathah had taken to planning operations under Ishnah’s guidance, and was proving quite proficient.

Still, she lingered, enjoying Adolin’s presence. She wanted to be here, with him, before it was time to be Veil. She … well, she didn’t much care for him. Too clean-cut, too oblivious, too expected. She was fine with him as an ally, but wasn’t the least bit interested romantically.

Shallan held his arm, walking with him. People already moved through the city, cleaning up—more so they could scavenge than out of civic duty. They reminded her of cremlings that emerged after a storm to feast on the plants. Indeed, nearby, ornamental rockbuds spat out vines in clusters beside doorways. A splatter of green vines and unfurling leaves, set against the brown city canvas.

One patch nearby had been struck—and burned away—by the Everstorm’s red lightning.

“I need to show you the Impossible Falls sometime,” Adolin said. “If you watch them from the right angles, it looks like the water is flowing down along the tiers, then somehow right up onto the top again.…”

As they walked, she had to step over a dead mink sticking half out of a broken tree trunk. Not the most romantic of strolls, but it was good to hold on to Adolin’s arm—even if he had to wear a false face.

“Hey!” Adolin said. “I didn’t get to look through the sketchbook. You said you were going to show me.”

“I brought the wrong one, remember? I had to carve on the table.” She grinned. “Don’t think I missed you going up and paying for the damage when I wasn’t looking.”

He grunted.

“People carve on bar tables. It happens all the time.”

“Sure, sure. It was a good carving too.”

“And you still think I shouldn’t have done it.” She squeezed his arm. “Oh, Adolin Kholin. You are your father’s son. I won’t do it again, all right?”

He was blushing. “I,” he said, “was promised sketches. I don’t care if it’s the wrong sketchbook. I feel like I haven’t seen any of your pictures for ages.”

“There’s nothing good in this one,” she said, digging in her satchel. “I’ve been distracted lately.”

He still made her hand it over, and secretly she was pleased. He started flipping through the more recent pictures, and though he noted the ones of strange spren, he idled most on the sketches of refugees she’d done for her collection. A mother with her daughter, sitting in shadow, but with her face looking toward the horizon and the hints of a rising sun. A thick-knuckled man sweeping the area around his pallet on the street. A young woman, lighteyed and hanging out a window, hair drifting free, wearing only a nightgown with her hand tied in a pouch.

“Shallan,” he said, “these are amazing! Some of the best work you’ve ever done.”

“They’re just quick sketches, Adolin.”

“They’re beautiful,” he said, looking at another, where he stopped. It was a picture of him in one of his new suits.

Shallan blushed. “Forgot that was there,” she said, trying to get the sketchbook back. He lingered on the picture, then finally succumbed to her prodding and handed it back. She let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that she’d be embarrassed if he saw the sketch of Kaladin on the next page—she did sketches of all kinds of people. But best to end on the picture of Adolin. Veil had been seeping through on that other one.

“You’re getting better, if that’s possible.”

“Maybe. Though I don’t know how much I can credit myself with the progress. Words of Radiance says that a lot of Lightweavers were artists.”

“So the order recruited people like you.”

“Or the Surgebinding made them better at sketching, giving them an unfair advantage over other artists.”

“I have an unfair advantage over other duelists. I have had the finest training since childhood. I was born strong and healthy, and my father’s wealth gave me some of the best sparring partners in the world. My build gives me reach over other men. Does that mean I don’t deserve accolades when I win?”

“You don’t have supernatural help.”

“You still had to work hard. I know you did.” He put his arm around her, pulling her closer as they walked. Other Alethi couples kept their distance in public, but Adolin had been raised by a mother with a fondness for hugs. “You know, there’s this thing my father complains about. He asked what the use of Shardblades was.”

“Um … I think they’re pretty obviously for cutting people up. Without cutting them, actually. So—”

“But why only swords? Father asks why the ancient Radiants never made tools for the people.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I love that your powers make you a better artist, Shallan. Father was wrong. The Radiants weren’t just soldiers! Yes, they created incredible weapons, but they also created incredible art! And maybe once this war is done, we can find other uses for their powers.”

Storms, his enthusiasm could be intoxicating. As they walked toward the tailor’s shop, she was loath to part with him, though Veil did need to get on with her day’s work.

I can be anyone, Shallan thought, noticing a few joyspren blowing past, like a swirl of blue leaves. I can become anything. Adolin deserved someone far better than her. Could she … become that someone? Craft for him the perfect bride, a woman that looked and acted as befitted Adolin Kholin?

It wouldn’t be her. The real her was a bruised and sorry thing, painted up all pretty, but inside a horrid mess. She already put a face over that for him. Why not go a few steps farther? Radiant … Radiant could be his perfect bride, and she did like him.

The thought made Shallan feel cold inside.

Once they were close enough to the tailor’s shop that she didn’t worry about him being safe as he walked back on his own, Shallan forced herself to pull out of his grip. She held his hand a moment with her freehand. “I need to be going.”

“You aren’t to meet the cult until sunset.”

“I need to steal some food first to pay them.”

Still, he held to her hand. “What do you do out there, Shallan? Who do you become?”

“Everyone,” she said. Then she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for being you, Adolin.”

“Everyone else was taken already,” he mumbled.

Never stopped me.

He watched her until she ducked around a corner, heart thumping. Adolin Kholin in her life was like a warm sunrise.

Veil started to seep out, and she was forced to acknowledge that sometimes she preferred the storm and the rain to the sun.

She checked at the drop point, inside a corner of a building that was now rubble. Here, Red had deposited a pack that contained Veil’s outfit. She grabbed it and went hunting a good place to change.

The end of the world had come, but that seemed most true after a storm. Refuse strewn about, people who hadn’t gotten to shelters moaning from fallen shacks or alongside streets.

It was like each storm tried to wipe them off Roshar, and they only remained through sheer grit and luck. Now, with two storms, it was even worse. If they defeated the Voidbringers, would the Everstorm remain? Had it begun to erode their society in a way that—win the war or not—would eventually end with them all swept out to sea?

She felt her face changing as she walked, draining Stormlight from her satchel. It rose in her like a flaring flame, before dimming to an ember as she became the people from the sketches Adolin had seen.

The poor man who tried doggedly to keep the area around his little pallet clean, as if to try to maintain some control over an insane world.

The lighteyed girl who wondered what had happened to the joy of adolescence. Instead of her wearing her first havah to a ball, her family was forced to take in dozens of relatives from neighboring towns, and she spent the days locked away because the streets weren’t safe.

The mother with a child, sitting in darkness, looking toward the horizon and a hidden sun.

Face after face. Life after life. Overpowering, intoxicating, alive. Breathing, and crying, and laughing, and being. So many hopes, so many lives, so many dreams.

She unbuttoned her havah up the side, then let it fall. She dropped her satchel, which thumped from the heavy book inside. She stepped forward in only her shift, safehand uncovered, feeling the wind on her skin. She was still wearing an illusion, one that didn’t disrobe, so nobody could see her.

Nobody could see her. Had anyone ever seen her? She stopped on the street corner, wearing shifting faces and clothing, enjoying the sensation of freedom, clothed yet naked skin shivering at the wind’s kiss.

Around her, people ducked away into buildings, frightened.

Just another spren, Shallan/Veil/Radiant thought. That’s what I am. Emotion made carnal.

She lifted her hands to the sides, exposed, yet invisible. She breathed the breaths of a city’s people.

“Mmm…” Pattern said, unweaving himself from her discarded dress. “Shallan?”

“Maybe,” she said, lingering.

Finally, she let herself slip fully into Veil’s persona. She immediately shook her head and fetched the clothing and satchel. She was lucky it hadn’t been stolen. Foolish girl. They didn’t have time for prancing around from poem to poem.

Veil found a secluded location beside a large gnarled tree whose roots spread all the way along the wall in either direction. She quickly rearranged her underclothing, then put on her trousers and did up her shirt. She pulled on her hat, checked herself in a hand mirror, then nodded.

Right, then. Time to meet up with Vathah.

He was waiting at the inn where Wit had once stayed. Radiant retained hope that she’d meet him again there, for a more thorough interrogation. In the private room, away from the eyes of the fretting innkeeper, Vathah laid out a couple of spheres to light the maps he’d purchased. They detailed the manor she intended to hit this afternoon.

“They call it the Mausoleum,” Vathah explained as Veil sat. He showed her an artist’s sketch he’d purchased, which was of the building’s grand hall. “Those statues are all Soulcast, by the way. They’re favored servants of the house, turned to storming stone.”

“It’s a sign of honor and respect among lighteyes.”

“It’s creepy,” Vathah said. “When I die, burn my corpse up right good. Don’t leave me staring for eternity while your descendants sip their tea.”

Veil nodded absently, placing Shallan’s sketchbook on the table. “Pick an alias from this. This map says the larder is on the outside wall. Time is tight, so we might want to do this one the easy way. Have Red make a distraction, then use Shallan’s Blade to cut us an opening right in to the food.”

“You know, they’re said to have quite the fortune at the Mausoleum. The Tenet family riches are…” He trailed off as he saw her expression. “No riches, then.”

“We get the food to pay the cult, then we get out.”

“Fine.” He settled on the image of the man sweeping around his pallet, staring at it. “You know, when you reformed me from banditry, I figured I was done with stealing.”

“This is different.”

“Different how? We stole mostly food back then too, Brightness. Just wanted to stay alive and forget.”

“And do you still want to forget?”

He grunted. “No, suppose I don’t. Suppose I sleep a little better now at night, don’t I?”

The door opened and the innkeeper bustled in, holding drinks. Vathah yelped, though Veil turned with a droll expression. “I believe,” she said, “I wanted to not be interrupted.”

“I brought drinks!”

“Which is an interruption,” Veil said, pointing out the door. “If we’re thirsty, we’ll ask.”

The innkeeper grumbled, then backed out the door, carrying his tray. He’s suspicious, Veil thought. He thinks we were up to something with Wit, and wants to find out what.

“Time to move these meetings to another location, eh, Vathah?” She looked back at the table.

And found someone else sitting there.

Vathah was gone, replaced by a bald man with thick knuckles and a well-kept smock. Shallan glanced at the picture on the table, then at the drained sphere beside it, then back at Vathah.

“Nice,” she said. “But you forgot to do the back of the head, the part not in the drawing.”

“What?” Vathah asked, frowning.

She showed him the hand mirror.

“Why’d you put his face on me?”

“I didn’t,” Veil said, standing. “You panicked and this happened.”

Vathah prodded at his face, still looking in the mirror, confused.

“I’ll bet the first few times are always accidents,” Veil said. She tucked the mirror away. “Gather this stuff up. We’ll do the mission as planned, but tomorrow you’re relieved of infiltration duty. I’ll want you practicing with your Stormlight instead.”

“Practicing…” He finally seemed to get it, his brown eyes opening widely. “Brightness! I’m no storming Radiant.”

“Of course not. You’re probably a squire—I think most orders had them. You might become something more. I think Shallan was making illusions off and on for years before she said the oaths. But then, it’s all kind of muddled in her head. I had my sword when I was very young, and…”

She took a deep breath. Fortunately, Veil hadn’t lived through those days.

Pattern hummed in warning.

“Brightness…” Vathah said. “Veil, you really think that I…”

Storms, he seemed like he was going to cry.

She patted him on the shoulder. “We don’t have time to waste. The cult will be waiting for me in four hours, and expect a nice payment of food. You going to be all right?”

“Sure, sure,” he said. The illusion finally dropped, and the image of Vathah himself so emotional was even more striking. “I can do this. Let’s go steal from some rich people and give to some crazy people instead.”

78. The Revel

Veil had exposed herself.

That nagged at her as the wagon—filled with spoils from the robbery—rolled toward the appointed meeting place with the cult. She nestled in the back, against a bag of grain, feet up on a paper-wrapped haunch of cured pork.

“Swiftspren” was Veil, as she was the one who had been seen distributing the food. Therefore, to enter this revel, she would have to go as herself.

The enemy knew what she looked like. Should she have created a new persona, a false face, to not expose Veil?

But Veil is a false face, a part of her said. You could always abandon her.

She strangled that part of her, smothered it deep. Veil was too real, too vital, to abandon. Shallan would be easier.

First moon was up by the time they reached the steps to the Oathgate platform. Vathah rolled the wagon into place, and Veil hopped off, coat rippling around her. Two guards here were dressed as flamespren, with golden and red tassels. Their muscular builds, and those two spears set near the steps, hinted these men might have been soldiers before joining the cult.

A woman bustled between them, wearing a flat white mask with eyeholes but no mouth or other features. Veil narrowed her eyes; the mask reminded her of Iyatil, Mraize’s master in the Ghostbloods. But it was a very different shape.

“You were told to come alone, Swiftspren,” the woman said.

“You expected me to unload all of this on my own?” Veil waved to the back of the wagon.

“We can handle it,” the woman said smoothly, stepping over as one of the guards held up a torch—not a sphere lamp—and the other lowered the wagon’s tailgate. “Mmmm…”

Veil turned sharply. That hum …

The guards started unloading the food.

“You can take all but the two bags marked with red,” Veil said, pointing. “I need those for my rounds visiting the poor.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a negotiation,” the cultist said. “You asked for this. You’ve been leaving whispers through the city that you want to join the revel.”

Wit’s work, apparently. She’d have to thank him.

“Why are you here?” the cultist asked, sounding curious. “What is it you want, Swiftspren, so-called hero of the markets?”

“I just … keep hearing this voice. It says that this is the end, that I should give in to it. Embrace the time of spren.” She turned toward the Oathgate platform; an orange glow was rising from the top. “The answers are up there, aren’t they?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the three nod to one another. She’d passed some kind of test.

“You may climb the steps to enlightenment,” the cultist in white told her. “Your guide will meet you at the top.”

She tossed her hat to Vathah and met his eyes. Once the unloading was through, he’d pull away and set up a few streets farther off, where he could watch the edge of the Oathgate platform. If she had trouble, she would throw herself off, counting on Stormlight to heal her after falling.

She started up the steps.

Kaladin normally liked the feeling of the city after a storm. Clean and fresh, washed of grime and refuse.

He’d done evening patrol, checking over their beat to see everything was all right following the storm. Now he stood on the top of the wall, waiting for the rest of his squad, who were still stowing their equipment. The sun had barely set, and it was time for dinner.

Below, he picked out buildings newly scarred from lightning strikes. A pod of corrupted windspren danced past, trailing intense red light. Even the smell of the air was wrong somehow. Moldy and sodden.

Syl sat quietly on his shoulder until Beard and the others piled into the stairwell. He finally joined them, walking down below to the barrack, where both platoons—his and the one they shared the space with—were gathering for dinner. Roughly twenty of the men from the other platoon would be on wall duty tonight, but everyone else was present.

Not long after Kaladin arrived, the two platoon captains called their men to muster. Kaladin fell into line between Beard and Ved, and together they saluted as Azure stepped into the doorway. She was arrayed for battle as always, with her breastplate, chain, and cloak.

Tonight, she decided to do a formal inspection. Kaladin held attention with the others as she walked down their lines and commented quietly to the two captains. She looked over a few swords, and asked several of the men if they needed anything. Kaladin felt as if he’d stood in similar lines a hundred times, sweating and hoping that the general would find everything in order.

They always did. This wasn’t the type of inspection that was intended to actually find problems—this was a chance for the men to show off for their highmarshal. They swelled as she told them they “just might be the finest platoons of fighting men I’ve ever had the privilege of leading.” Kaladin was certain he’d heard those exact words from Amaram.

Trite or not, the words inspired the men. They gave the highmarshal shouts of approval once they were given leave to break ranks. Perhaps the number of “finest platoons” in the army went up during times of war, when everyone craved a morale boost.

Kaladin walked to the officers’ table. It hadn’t taken much work to get himself invited to dine with the highmarshal. Noro really wanted him promoted to lieutenant, and most of the others were too intimidated by Azure to sit at her table.

The highmarshal hung her cloak and strange sword on a peg. She kept her gloves on, and though he couldn’t see her chest because of the breastplate, that face and build were obviously female. She was also very Alethi, with the skin tone and hair, her eyes a glimmering light orange.

She must have spent time as a mercenary out west, Kaladin thought. Sigzil had once told him that women fought in the west, particularly among mercenaries.

The meal was simple curried grain. Kaladin took a bite, well acquainted by now with the aftertaste of Soulcast grain. A lingering staleness. The curry helped, but the cooks had used the boiled-off starch of the grain to thicken it, so it had some of the same flavor.

He’d been placed relatively far from the center of the table, where Azure conversed with the two platoon captains. Eventually, one excused himself to use the privy.

Kaladin thought for a moment, then picked up his plate and moved down the table to settle into the open spot.

Veil reached the top of the platform, entering what felt like a little village. The monastery structures here were much smaller—yet far nicer—than the ones on the Shattered Plains had been. A cluster of fine stonework structures with slanted, wedge-shaped roofs, the points toward the Origin.

Ornamental shalebark grew around the bases of most of the buildings, cultivated and carved into swirling patterns. Veil took a Memory for Shallan, but her focus was on the firelight coming from farther inward. She couldn’t see the control building. All of these other structures were in the way. She could see the palace off to her left, glowing in the night with windows lit. It connected to the Oathgate platform by a covered walkway called the Sunwalk. A small group of soldiers, visible in the darkness only as shadows, guarded the way across.

Close to her—at the top of the steps—a rotund man sat along a shalebark ridge. He had short hair and light green eyes, and gave her an affable grin. “Welcome! I’m your guide tonight, for your first time at the revel! It can be … ah, disorienting.”

Those are ardent robes, Veil noted. Ripped, stained from what appeared to be a variety of foods.

“Everyone who comes up here,” he said, hopping off his seat, “is reborn. Your name is now … um…” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Where did I write that? Well, suppose it isn’t important. Your name is Kishi. Doesn’t that sound nice? Good job getting up here. This is where you’ll find the real fun in the city.”

He shoved his hands back in his pockets and looked down one of the roadways, then his shoulders slumped. “Anyway,” he said. “Let’s get going. Lots of reveling to do tonight. Always so much reveling to be done…”

“And you are?”

“Me? Oh, um, Kharat is what they named me. I think? I forget.” He ambled forward without waiting to see if she followed.

She did, eager to get to the center. However, just past the first building, she reached the revel—and had to stop to take it in. A bonfire burned right on the ground, flames crackling and whipping in the wind, bathing Veil in heat. Corrupted flamespren, vivid blue and somehow more jagged, danced inside of it. Tables lined the walkway here, piled with food. Candied meats, stacks of flatbread crusted with sugar, fruits and pastries.

A variety of people passed by, occasionally scooping food off the tables with their bare hands. They laughed and shouted. Many had been ardents, marked by brown robes. Others were lighteyes, though their clothing had … decayed? It seemed a fitting word for these suits with missing jackets, havah dresses whose skirts were ragged from brushing the ground. Safehand sleeves ripped off at the shoulder and discarded somewhere.

They moved like fish in a school, flowing from right to left. She picked out soldiers, both lighteyed and dark, in the remnants of uniforms. They seemed to take no note of her or Kharat standing to the side.

She’d have to cut through the stream of people to get farther inward to the Oathgate control building. She started to do so, but Kharat took her by the arm, steering her to join the flow of people.

“We have to stay to the outer ring,” he said. “No going inward for us, nope. Be happy. You get … you get to enjoy the end of the world in style.…”

She reluctantly let herself be pulled along. It was probably best to do a round of the platform anyway. However, not long after starting, she began to hear the voice.

Let go.

Give up your pain.

Feast. Indulge.

Embrace the end.

Pattern hummed on her coat, his sound lost to the many people laughing and drinking. Kharat stuck his fingers into some kind of creamy dessert, taking it by the handful. His eyes had glazed over, and he muttered to himself as he pushed the food into his mouth. Though others laughed and even danced, most showed that same glassy look.

She could feel Pattern’s vibrations on her coat. It seemed to counteract the voices, clearing her head. Kharat handed her a cup of wine he’d scooped from a table. Who set this all up? Where were the servants?

There was just so much food. Tables and tables of it. People moved in buildings they passed, engaging in other carnal delights. Veil tried to slip across the stream of revelers, but Kharat kept hold of her.

“Everyone wants to go inward their first time,” he said. “You aren’t allowed. Enjoy this. Enjoy the feeling. It’s not our fault, right? We didn’t fail her. We were only doing what she asked. Don’t cause a storm, girl. Nobody wants that.…”

He hung on to Veil’s arm. So instead she waited until they passed another building, and tugged him that way.

“Going to find a partner?” he asked, numb. “Sure. That’s allowed. Assuming you can find anyone still sober enough to care…”

They entered the building, which had once been a place for meditation, filled with individual rooms. It smelled sharply of incense, and each alcove had its own brazier for burning prayers. Those were now occupied for another sort of experience.

“I just want to rest a moment,” she told Kharat, peeking into an empty room. It had a window. She could slip out that, maybe. “It’s all so overwhelming.”

“Oh.” He looked over his shoulder toward the revel passing outside. His left hand was still coated with sweet paste.

Veil stepped into the chamber. When he tried to follow, she said, “I need a moment alone.”

“I’m supposed to keep watch on you,” he said, and prevented her from closing the door.

“Then watch,” she said and settled down on the bench inside the cell. “From a distance.”

He sighed and sat down on the floor of the hallway.

Now what? A new face, she thought. What did he name me? Kishi. It meant Mystery. She used a Memory she’d drawn earlier in the day, that of a woman from the market. In her mind, Shallan added touches to the clothing. A havah, ragged like the others, an exposed safehand.

It would do. She wished she could sketch it, but she could make this work. Now, what to do about her guard?

He probably hears voices, she thought. I can use that. She pressed her hand to Pattern, and wove sound.

“Go,” she whispered, “hang on the wall of the hallway outside, next to him.”

Pattern softly hummed his reply. She closed her eyes, and could faintly hear the words she’d woven to be whispered near Kharat.

Indulge.

Get something to drink.

Join the revel.

“You going to just sit there?” Kharat called in to her.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to get something to drink. Don’t leave.”

“Fine.”

He rose, then jogged out. By the time he got back, she had attached an illusion of Veil to a ruby mark, then left it there. It showed Veil resting on the bench, eyes closed, snoring softly.

Kishi passed Kharat in the hallway, stepping with glassy eyes. He didn’t spare her a second glance, and instead settled down in the hallway with a large cup of wine to watch Veil.

Kishi joined the revel outside. A man there laughed and grabbed at her safehand, as if to pull her toward one of the rooms. Kishi dodged him and slipped farther inward, flowing through the stream of people. This “outer ring” seemed to round the entire Oathgate platform.

The secrets were farther toward the center. Nobody forbade Kishi as she left the flow of the outer ring, stepping between two buildings, heading inward.

The others stopped their small talk, and the officers’ table grew very still as Kaladin settled down across from Azure.

The highmarshal laced her gloved hands before herself. “Kal, was it?” she said. “The lighteyed man with slave brands. How are you finding your time in the Wall Guard?”

“It’s a well-run army, sir, and strangely welcoming of one such as myself.” He then nodded over the highmarshal’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen someone treat a Shardblade so casually. You just hang it on a peg?”

The others at the table watched with obviously held breaths.

“I’m not particularly worried about anyone taking her,” Azure said. “I trust these men.”

“It’s still remarkable,” Kaladin said. “Foolhardy, even.”

Across the table, two places down from Azure, Lieutenant Noro raised his hands silently toward Kaladin in a pleading way. Don’t screw this up, Kal!

But Azure smiled. “I never did get an explanation for that shash brand, soldier.”

“I never gave a proper one, sir,” Kaladin said. “I’m not fond of the memories that earned me the scar.”

“How did you end up in this city?” Azure asked. “Sadeas’s lands are far to the north. There are several armies of Voidbringers between here and there, by report.”

“I flew. How about you, sir? You couldn’t have been in the city long before the siege began; nobody talks of you earlier than that time. They say you appeared right when the Guard needed you.”

“Perhaps I was always here, but merely blended in.”

“With those scars? They may not spell out danger as explicitly as mine, but they’d have been memorable.”

The rest of the table—lieutenants and the platoon captain—stared at Kaladin slack-jawed. Perhaps he was pushing too hard, acting too far above his station.

He’d never been good at acting his station though.

“Perhaps,” Azure said, “one shouldn’t be questioning my arrival. Be thankful someone was here when the city needed them.”

“I am thankful,” Kaladin said. “Your reputation with these men commends you, Azure, and extreme times can excuse a great deal. Eventually though, you’ll need to come clean. These men deserve to know who—exactly—is commanding them.”

“And what about you, Kal?” She took a spoonful of curry and rice—men’s food, which she ate with gusto. “Do they deserve to know your past? Shouldn’t you come clean?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am your commanding officer, you realize. You should answer me when I ask questions.”

“I’ve given answers,” Kaladin said. “If they aren’t the ones you want, then perhaps your questions aren’t very good.”

Noro gasped audibly.

“And you, Kal? You make statements, dripping with implications. You want answers? Why not just ask?”

Storms. She was right. He’d been dancing around serious questions. Kaladin looked her in the eyes. “Why won’t you let anyone talk about the fact that you’re a woman, Azure? Noro, don’t faint. You’ll embarrass us all.”

The lieutenant thumped his forehead against the table, groaning softly. The captainlord, with whom Kaladin hadn’t interacted much, had gone red-faced.

“They came up with this game on their own,” Azure said. “They’re Alethi, so they need an excuse for why they’re listening to a woman giving military orders. Pretending there’s some mystery focuses them on that, instead of on masculine pride. I find the entire thing silly.” She leaned forward. “Tell me honestly. Did you come here chasing me?”

Chasing you? Kaladin cocked his head.

Drums sounded in the near distance.

It took a moment for them, even Kaladin, to register what that meant. Then Kaladin and Azure threw themselves back from the bench at nearly the same time. “To arms!” Kaladin shouted. “There’s an attack on the wall!”

The next ring inward on the Oathgate platform was filled with people crawling.

Kishi stood at the perimeter, watching a multitude of men and women in ragged finery crawl past her, giggling, moaning, or gasping. Each seemed in the thrall of a different emotion, and each stared with an openly maddened expression. She thought she recognized a few from the descriptions of lighteyes who had disappeared into the palace, though in their state, it was hard to tell.

A woman with long hair dragging on the ground looked toward her, grinning with clenched teeth and bleeding gums. She crawled, one hand after another, her havah shredded, faded. She was followed by a man wearing rings glowing with Stormlight, in contrast to his ripped clothing. He giggled incessantly.

The food on the tables here rotted, and was infested with decayspren. Kishi wavered at the edge of the ring. She should have kept to the outer ring; she didn’t belong here. There was food aplenty behind her. Laughter and reveling. It seemed to pull her back, inviting her to join the eternal, beautiful walk.

Within that ring, time wouldn’t matter. She could forget Shallan, and what she’d done. Just … just give in …

Pattern hummed. Veil gasped, letting Kishi burst from her, Lightweaving collapsing. Storms. She had to be away from this place. It was doing things to her brain. Strange things, even for her.

Not yet. She pulled her coat tight, then picked her way across the street full of crawling people. No bonfire lit her way, only the moon overhead and the light of the jewelry the people wore.

Storms. Where had they all gone for the storm? Their moaning, chittering, and babbling chased her as she crossed the street, then hurried down a dark pathway between two monastery buildings, inward. Toward the control building, which should be right ahead.

The voices in her head combined from whispers to a kind of surging rhythm. A thumping of impressions, followed by a pause, followed by another surge. Almost like …

She stepped between the buildings and entered a moonlit square, colored violet from Salas above. Instead of the control building, she found an overgrown mass. Something had covered the entire structure, like the Midnight Mother had enveloped the gemstone pillar beneath Urithiru.

The dark mass pulsed and throbbed. Black veins as thick as a man’s leg ran from it and melded with the ground nearby. A heart. It beat an irregular rhythm, bum-ba-ba-bum instead of the common ba-bum of her own heartbeat.

Give in.

Join the revel.

Shallan, listen to me.

She shook herself. That last voice had been different. She’d heard it before, hadn’t she?

She looked to the side, and found her shadow on the ground, pointed the wrong way, toward the moonlight instead of away from it. The shadow crept up the wall, with eyes that were white holes, glowing faintly.

I’m not your enemy. But the heart is a trap. Take caution.

Distantly, drums started sounding on the top of the wall. The Voidbringers were attacking.

It all threatened to overwhelm her. The thumping heart, the strange processions in rings around it, the drums and the panic that the Fused were coming for her because she’d been seen.

Veil seized control. She’d accomplished her goal, she’d scouted the area, and she had information about the Oathgate. It was time to get out.

She turned and—forcibly—put on Kishi’s face. She crossed the stream of crawling, moaning people. She flowed back into the outer ring of revelers, before slipping out.

She didn’t check on her guide. She walked to the rim of the Oathgate platform and, without a look back, leaped off.

79. Echoes of Thunder

Kaladin charged up the stairwell beside Highmarshal Azure, the sound of drums breaking the air like echoes of thunder from the departed storm. He counted the beats.

Storms. That’s my section under assault.

“Damnation these creatures!” Azure muttered. “I’m missing something. Like white on black…” She glanced at Kaladin. “Just tell me. Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

The two burst out of the stairwell onto the wall’s top, entering a scene of chaos. The soldiers on duty had lit the enormous oil lamps on the tops of the towers, giving light to the dark walls. Fused swooped between them, trailing dark violet light, attacking with long, bloodied lances.

Men lay screaming on the ground or huddled in pairs, holding up shields as if trying to hide from the nightmares above.

Kaladin and Azure exchanged a look, then nodded to one another. Later.

She broke left and Kaladin dashed right, shouting for men to form up. Syl spun around his head, concerned, anxious. Kaladin scooped a shield off the ground and seized a soldier by the arm, towing him around and locking shields. A swooping lance clanged off the metal, sending a jolt through Kaladin. The Voidbringer flew past.

Pained, Kaladin ignored the wounded and bleeding who crawled with corrupted painspren. He pulled the scattered remnants of the Eighth Platoon back together while his own men stumbled to a halt outside the stairwell. These were their friends, the people with whom they shared a barrack.

“To your right and up!” Syl shouted.

Kaladin set himself and used his shield to push aside the lance of a Voidbringer who soared past. A second Voidbringer followed, wearing a long skirt of rippling crimson cloth. The way she flew was almost mesmerizing.… Right up until her lance pinned Captain Deedanor against the wall’s battlements, then lifted him and tossed him over.

He screamed as he plummeted toward the ground below. Kaladin almost broke rank and ran for him, but held himself in the line by force. He reached, by instinct, for the Stormlight in his pouch—but held himself back. Using it for Lashing would attract screamers, and in this darkness, even drawing in a small amount would reveal him for what he was. The Fused would all attack him together; he would risk undermining the mission to save the entire city.

Today, he protected best through discipline, order, and keeping a level head. “Squads One and Two, with me!” he shouted. “Vardinar, you’ve got Five and Six; have your men hand out pikes, then grab bows and get to the tower’s top. Noro, take squads Three and Four and set up on the wall walk just past the tower. My men will hold here on this side. Go, go!”

Nobody voiced a complaint as they scrambled to do as he said. Kaladin heard shouts from the highmarshal farther down the wall, but didn’t have a chance to see how she was doing. As his two squads finally got a proper shield wall mounted, a human corpse slammed down onto the wall walk nearby. It had been dropped from very high up—or perhaps it had been Lashed into the sky and had only now fallen. Most of the wounded men were archers from the Eighth Platoon; it looked like they’d been swept from the top of the tower.

We can’t fight these things, Kaladin thought. The Voidbringers attacked in sweeping dives, coming in from all directions. It was impossible to maintain a normal formation beneath that assault.

Syl shifted into the shape of a girl and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head. He could fight without Stormlight. He’d protected people long before he could fly.

He started to call out orders, but a Fused passed by, slapping at their pikes with a large shield. Before the men could get them reoriented, another crashed down into the center of them, sending soldiers stumbling. A violet glow steamed from the creature’s body as it swept around with its lance, wielding it like an oversized staff.

Kaladin ducked by instinct, trying to maneuver his pike. The Fused grinned as the formation disintegrated. It was male, reminiscent of a Parshendi, with layered plates of chitin armor creeping down across its forehead and rising from cheeks that were marbled black and red.

Kaladin leveled his pike, but the creature lunged along it and pressed its hand against Kaladin’s chest. He felt himself grow lighter, but also suddenly begin to fall backward.

The creature had Lashed him.

Kaladin fell back, like he was toppling off a ledge, falling along the wall toward a group of his men. The Fused wanted Kaladin to crash into them, but it had made a mistake.

The sky was his.

Kaladin responded immediately to the Lashing, and reoriented himself in the blink of an eye. Down became the direction he was falling: along the walkway, toward the towering guard post. His men seemed to be stuck to the side of a cliff, turning toward him, horrified.

Kaladin was able to shove against the stone with the end of his pike, moving him to the side so he whooshed past his men instead of crashing into them. Syl joined him as a ribbon, and he twisted, falling feet-first along the walkway toward the guard tower below.

He was able to nudge himself so he fell right into the open doorway. He dropped the pike, then caught the lip of the doorway as he passed through it. He stopped with a jarring lurch, arms protesting with pain, but that maneuver slowed him enough. When he swung and let go, he dropped through the room—past the dining table, which seemed glued to the wall—and landed on the opposite wall, inside the building. He stepped over to the other doorway, which looked out onto the walk where he’d positioned Noro’s squad. Beard and Ved held pikes toward the sky, looking anxious.

“Kaladin!” Syl said. “Above!”

He looked upward and out the doorway he’d come through. The Voidbringer who had Lashed him came soaring downward, carrying a lance. It curved to bypass the tower, preparing to whip around and attack Beard and the men on the other side.

Kaladin growled and dashed along the inside wall of the tower, pulled himself up past the table, then hurled himself out a window.

He crashed into the Voidbringer in midair, shoving the creature’s lance to the side.

“Leave. My. Men. Alone!”

Kaladin clung to the clothing of the monster, spinning in the air dozens of feet above the dark city, sparkling with the light of spheres in windows or lanterns. The Voidbringer Lashed them higher, falsely assuming that the more height it had, the more advantage it would gain over Kaladin.

Holding tightly with his left hand, wind whipping around them, Kaladin reached out with his right hand and summoned Syl as a long knife. She appeared immediately, and Kaladin shoved the diminutive Shardblade into the creature’s stomach.

The Voidbringer grunted and looked at him with deep, glowing red eyes. It dropped its lance and began to claw at Kaladin while spinning itself in the air, trying to throw him free.

They can survive wounds, Kaladin thought, gritting his teeth as the thing gripped at his neck. Like Radiants. That Voidlight sustains them.

Kaladin still refrained from drawing in his own Stormlight. He suffered the Fused’s Lashings as it spun them in the air, shouting in a language Kaladin didn’t understand. He tried to maneuver the Shardknife and cut the thing’s spine. The weapon was insanely sharp, but for the moment, leverage and disorientation were bigger factors.

The Voidbringer grunted, then Lashed itself—with Kaladin hanging on—back downward toward the wall. They fell quickly, a double or triple Lashing, spiraling and screaming toward the wall walk.

Kaladin! Syl’s voice, in his head. I sense something … something about its power. Cut upward, toward the heart.

The city, the battle, the sky—all became a blur. Kaladin forced his Blade farther into the creature’s chest, pushing it upward, seeking …

The Shardknife struck something brittle and hard.

The Fused’s red eyes winked out.

Kaladin twisted, putting the corpse beneath him and the wall walk. They hit hard, and he bounced off the corpse, then hit the stones with a crack. He groaned, eyes flashing with pain, and was forced—by instinct—to take in a breath of Stormlight to heal the damage of the fall.

That Light flowed through him, reknitting bones, repairing organs. It was used up in a moment, and he forced himself not to draw in more, instead pushing himself up and shaking his head.

The Voidbringer stared sightlessly from the wall walk beside him. It was dead.

Ahead, the other Fused began streaking away in retreat, leaving a broken and battered group of guards. Kaladin stumbled to his feet; his section of the wall was empty, save for the dead and the dying. He didn’t recognize any; he’d hit the wall some fifty feet away from his platoon’s position.

Syl landed on his shoulder and patted him on the side of the head. Painspren littered the wall, crawling this way and that, in the shape of hands without skin.

This city is doomed, Kaladin thought as he knelt by one of the wounded and quickly prepared a bandage by slicing up a fallen cloak. Storms. We might all be doomed. We’re not anywhere near ready to fight these things.

It looked like Noro’s squad, at least, had survived. They jogged down the wall and gathered around the Voidbringer Kaladin had killed, nudging it with the butts of their pikes. Kaladin tied off a tourniquet, then moved to another man, whose head he wrapped.

Soon, army surgeons flooded the wall. Kaladin stepped back, bloodied—but more angry than tired. He turned to Noro, Beard, and the others, who had gathered around him.

“You killed one,” Beard said, feeling at his arm with the empty glyphward. “Storms. You actually killed one, Kal.”

“How many have you brought down?” Kaladin asked, realizing that he’d never asked. “How many has the Wall Guard killed during the assaults these last weeks?”

His men shared glances.

“Azure drove a few off,” Noro said. “They’re afraid of her Shardblade. But as for Voidbringers killed … this would be the first, Kal.”

Storms. Even worse, the one he’d killed would be reborn. Unless the Heralds set up their prison again, Kaladin couldn’t ever really kill one of the Fused.

“I need to talk to Azure,” he said, striding down the wall walk. “Noro, report.”

“None fallen, sir, though Vaceslv took a gash to the chest. He’s with the surgeons, and should pull through.”

“Good. Squad, you’re with me.”

He found Azure surveying the Eighth Platoon’s losses near their guard tower. She had her cloak off and held oddly in one hand, wrapped around her forearm, with part of it draping down below. Her unsheathed Shardblade glittered, long and silvery.

Kaladin stepped up to her, the sleeve of his uniform stained dark with the blood of the Voidbringer he’d killed. Azure looked tired, and she gestured with her sword outward. “Have a look.”

Lights lit the horizon. Sphere lights. Thousands upon thousands of them—far more than he’d seen on previous nights. They blanketed the landscape.

“That’s the entire enemy army,” Azure said. “I’d bet my red life on it. Somehow, they marched them through that storm earlier today. It won’t be long now. They’ll have to attack before the next highstorm. A few days at most.”

“I need to know what’s going on here, Azure,” Kaladin said. “How are you getting food for this army?”

She drew her lips to a line.

“He killed one, Highmarshal,” Beard whispered from behind him. “Storms … he took one of them down. Grabbed on like he was mounting a storming horse, then rode the bastard through the sky.”

The woman studied him, and reluctantly Kaladin summoned Syl as a Shardblade. Noro’s eyes bulged, and Ved nearly fainted—though Beard just grinned.

“I’m here,” Kaladin said, resting the Sylblade on his shoulder, “on orders from King Elhokar and the Blackthorn. It’s my job to save Kholinar. And it’s time you started talking to me.”

She smiled at him. “Come with me.”

80. Oblivious

Grund wasn’t at his normal spot inside the corner of the broken shop.

The place hadn’t fared well during the Everstorm; the ceiling was sagging even more, and a snarl of tree branches had been blown in through the window, littering the floor. Veil frowned, calling his name. After fleeing the Oathgate platform, she’d met up with Vathah, who had been waiting as instructed.

She’d sent Vathah back to report to the king, and probably should have gone herself. But she hadn’t been able to shake the eerie disquiet of her trip through the revel. Going back home would have left her too much time to think.

Veil wanted to be out working instead. Monsters and Voidbringers were something she couldn’t comprehend, but starving children … she could do something about that. She’d taken the two remaining sacks of food and gone to help the city’s people.

If she could find them.

“Grund?” Veil repeated, leaning farther in through the window. Before, he’d always been up at this time. Perhaps he’d finally moved out of the building, like all the others had. Or maybe he hadn’t gotten back from the stormshelter yet, following the Everstorm.

She turned to leave, but Grund finally stumbled into the room. The little urchin tucked his malformed hand into his pocket and scowled at her. That was odd. He normally seemed so happy when she arrived.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothin’,” he said. “Thought you was someone else.” He gave her a grin.

Veil fished a few pieces of flatbread from her bag. “Not much today, I’m afraid. I wanted to make sure to stop by though. The information you gave us on that book was very helpful.”

He licked his lips, holding out his hands. She tossed him the flatbread, and he took an eager bite. “What do you need next?”

“Nothing right now,” Veil said.

“Come on. There has to be something I can do to help. Something you want, right?”

Too desperate, Veil thought. What is beneath the surface here? What have I missed?

“I’ll consider,” she said. “Grund, is everything all right?”

“Right. Sure, everything is great!” He paused. “Unless it shouldn’t be?”

Pattern hummed softly on Veil’s coat. She agreed.

“I’ll stop by again in a few days. Should have a big haul then.” Veil tipped her hat to the urchin, then slipped back into the market. It was late, but people lingered. Nobody wanted to be alone on days after the Everstorm came. Some looked toward the wall, where those Fused had attacked. But that sort of thing happened almost daily, so it didn’t cause too much of a stir.

Veil drew more attention than she’d have wanted. She’d exposed herself to them, given up her face.

“Grund tells lies, doesn’t he?” Pattern whispered.

“Yeah. I’m not sure why, or what about.”

As she wove into the market, she put her hand before her face, changing it with a wave of the fingers. She took her hat off, folded it, and covertly Lightwove it to look like a waterskin. Each was a little change that nobody would notice. She tucked her hair into her coat, made it look shorter, then finally closed her coat and changed the clothing underneath. When she took off the coat and folded it up, she was no longer Veil, but a market guard she’d drawn earlier.

Rolled coat under her arm, she lingered at a corner and waited to see if anyone passed, looking for Veil. She didn’t spot anyone, though her training with Ishnah at spotting tails wasn’t yet extensive. She threaded her way back through the crowd to Grund’s shop again. She lingered near the wall, then eased toward the window, listening.

“… Told you we shouldn’t have given her the book,” a voice was saying inside.

“This is pathetic,” another said. “Pathetic! That was the best you could do?”

She heard a grunt, and a whimper. That’s Grund. Veil cursed softly, scrambling around to look in through the window. A group of thugs was chewing on the flatbread she’d brought. Grund lay in the corner, whimpering and holding his stomach.

Veil felt a flash of rage, and angerspren immediately boiled around her, pools that sprayed red and orange. She shouted at the men and dashed for the doorway. They immediately scattered, though one slammed a cudgel onto Grund’s head with a sickening crunch.

By the time she reached Grund, the men had vanished farther into the building. She heard the door in the back slam closed. Pattern appeared in her hand as a Shardblade, but Stormfather! She couldn’t give chase—not and leave the poor child here.

Veil dismissed Pattern and knelt, aghast at the bloody wound in Grund’s head. It was bad. The skull was broken, bleeding …

He blinked, dazed. “V … Veil?”

“Storms, Grund,” she whispered. “I…” What could she do? “Help? Help, somebody! There’s a wounded child in here!”

Grund whimpered, then whispered something. Veil leaned close, feeling useless.

“Hate…” Grund whispered. “Hate you.”

“It’s all right,” Veil said. “They’re gone now. They … they ran. I’ll help.” Bandage. She cut at her shirttails with her knife.

“Hate you,” Grund whispered.

“It’s me, Grund. Not those others.”

“Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he whispered. “They killed them all. My friends. Tai…”

Veil pressed the cloth against his head wound, and he winced. Storms. “Quiet. Don’t exert yourself.”

“Hate you,” he repeated.

“I brought you food, Grund.”

“You drew them,” he hissed. “You strutted around, throwing food. You thought people wouldn’t notice?” He closed his eyes. “Had to sit all day, wait for … for you. My life was waiting for you. If I wasn’t here when you came, or if I tried to hide the food, they beat me.”

“How long?” she whispered, feeling her confidence shake.

“Since the first day, you storming woman. Hate … hate you … Others too. We all … hate you…”

She sat with him as his breathing slowed, then cut off. Finally she knelt back, bloodied cloth in her hands.

Veil could handle this. She’d seen death. It … it was life … on the street … and …

Too much. Too much for one day.

Shallan blinked tears from the corners of her eyes. Pattern hummed. “Shallan,” he said. “The boy, he spoke of the others. Others?”

Storms! She threw herself to her feet and pushed out into the night, dropping Veil’s hat and coat in her haste. She ran for Muri—the mother who had once been a seamstress. Shallan shoved through the market until she reached the packed tenement where the seamstress lived. She crossed the common room, then breathed a sigh of relief as she found Muri alive, inside her small room. The woman was hurriedly tossing clothing into a sack, her eldest daughter clutching a similar one.

She looked up, saw Shallan—who still looked like Veil—and cursed to herself. “You.” The frown lines and scowl were unfamiliar. She’d always seemed so pleasant.

“You know already?” Shallan asked. “About Grund?”

“Grund?” Muri snapped. “All I know is that the Grips are angry about something. I’m not going to take a chance.”

“The Grips?”

“How oblivious are you, woman? The gang in charge of this area has had toughs watching us all for when you next arrived. The one watching me met with another, and they had a quiet argument, then took off. I heard my name. So I’m leaving.”

“They took the food I gave you, didn’t they? Storms, they killed Grund!”

Muri stopped, then shook her head. “Poor kid. Better you than he.” She cursed, gathering her sacks and shoving her children toward the common room. “We always had to sit here, waiting for you and your storming sack of goodies.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

Muri left into the night with her children. Shallan watched them go, feeling numb. Empty. She quietly sank down in Muri’s deserted room, still holding the cloth with Grund’s blood.

81. Ithi and Her Sister

“My name is Kaladin,” he said, standing in the barrack common room—which had been emptied at the highmarshal’s order. Noro’s squad had remained by Kaladin’s request, and Azure had invited in Battalionlord Hadinar—a stocky, bejowled fellow, one of Azure’s primary officers. The only other person in the room was the fidgety ardent who painted glyphwards for the platoon.

Soft blue spherelight bathed the table where most of them sat. Kaladin stood instead, washing the blood from his hands with a damp rag at a water basin.

“Kaladin,” Azure mused. “A regal name. What’s your house?”

“They just call me Stormblessed. If you need proof of my orders from the king, it can be arranged.”

“Let’s pretend, for the sake of conversation, that I believe you,” Azure said. “What do you want from us?”

“I need to know how you’re using a Soulcaster without drawing the attention of the screaming spren. The secret might be essential to my work to save the city.”

Azure nodded, then rose and walked toward the back of the barrack. She used a key to open the back room. Kaladin had glanced in there before though. It only held some supplies.

The rest of them followed Azure into the room, where she slipped a small hook between two stones and threw a hidden latch. This let her remove a stone, revealing a handle. She heaved, pulling open a doorway. The light of a few handheld spheres revealed a small corridor that ran down the middle of the city wall.

“You cut a tunnel in one of the windblades, sir?” Beard asked, shocked.

“This has been here longer than any of us have been alive, soldier,” Battalionlord Hadinar said. “It is a quick, secret way between posts. There are even a few hidden stairwells up to the top.”

They had to go single file inside. Beard followed behind Kaladin, scrunched up against him in the confines. “Um, so Kal, you … you know the Blackthorn?”

“Better than most.”

“And … ahem … you know—”

“That the two of you never went swimming together in the Purelake?” Kaladin said. “Yes, though I suspect the rest of the squad guessed that, Beard.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at the others. He exhaled softly. “I figured you’d never believe the truth, since it was actually the Azish emperor.…”

This corridor, cut through the stone, reminded Kaladin of the strata of Urithiru. They reached a trapdoor in the floor, which Azure opened with a key. A short trip down a ladder—which had a dumbwaiter beside it, with ropes and pulleys—led them to a large room filled with sacks of grain. Kaladin held up a sphere, revealing a jagged wall with chunks cut out of it in a distinctly uneven way.

“I come down here every night or so,” Azure said, pointing with a gloved hand, “and cut out blocks with my Blade. I have nightmares about the city collapsing down on us, but I don’t know of another way to get enough stone—at least not without drawing even more attention.”

On the other side of the chamber, they found yet another locked door. Azure knocked twice, then opened this one, revealing a smaller room occupied by an aged female ardent. She knelt beside a stone block, and wore a distinctive fabrial on her hand—one that glowed powerfully with light from the emeralds it contained.

The woman had an inhuman look to her; she seemed to be growing vines under her skin, and they peeked out around her eyes, growing from the corners and spreading down her face like runners of ivy.

She stood and bowed to Azure. A real Soulcaster. So … Azure wasn’t doing it herself? “How?” Kaladin asked. “Why didn’t the screamers come for you?”

Azure pointed at the sides of the room, and for the first time Kaladin noticed the walls were covered in reflective metal plates. He frowned and rested his fingers against one, and found it cool to the touch. This wasn’t steel, was it?

“Soon after the strangeness at the palace began,” Azure said, “a man pulled a chull cart up to the front of our barrack. He had these sheets of metal in the back. He was … an odd fellow. I’ve had interactions with him before.”

“Angular features?” Kaladin guessed. “Quick with an insult. Silly and straight, somehow all at once?”

“You know him, I see,” Azure said. “He warned us to only Soulcast inside a room lined with this metal. So far as we can tell, it prevents the screamers from sensing us. Unfortunately, it also blocks spanreeds from contacting the outside.

“We keep poor Ithi and her sister working nonstop, trading off the Soulcaster. Feeding the entire city would be an impossible task for the two of them, but we’ve been able to at least keep our army strong, with some to spare.”

Damnation, Kaladin thought, inspecting the reflective walls. This wasn’t going to help him use his powers without notice.

“All right, Stormblessed,” Azure said. “I’ve opened our secrets to you. Now you’ll tell me how the king could expect one man, even a Shardbearer, to be able to save this city.”

“There’s a device in Kholinar,” he said, “of ancient design. It can instantly transport large groups of people across great distances.” He turned toward Azure and the others. “The Kholin armies wait to join us here. All we need to do is activate the device—something that only a select few people can do.”

The soldiers looked stunned—all but Azure, who perked up. “Really? You’re serious?”

Kaladin nodded.

“Great! Let’s get this thing working! Where is it?”

Kaladin took a deep breath. “Well, that happens to be the problem.…”

82. The Girl Who Stood Up

She huddled someplace. She’d forgotten where.

For a while, she’d been … everybody. A hundred faces, cycling one after another. She searched them for comfort. Surely she could find someone who didn’t hurt.

All the nearby refugees had fled, naming her a spren. They left her with those hundred faces, in silence, until her Stormlight died off.

That left only Shallan. Unfortunately.

Darkness. A candle snuffed out. A scream cut off. With nothing to see, her mind provided images.

Her father, his face turning purple as she strangled him, singing a lullaby.

Her mother, dead with burned eyes.

Tyn, run through by Pattern.

Kabsal, shaking on the floor as he succumbed to poison.

Yalb, the incorrigible sailor from Wind’s Pleasure, dead in the depths of the sea.

An unnamed coachman, murdered by members of the Ghostbloods.

Now Grund, his head opened up.

Veil had tried to help these people, but had succeeded only in making their lives worse. The lie that was Veil became suddenly manifest. She hadn’t lived on the streets and she didn’t know how to help people. Pretending to have experience didn’t mean she actually did.

Veil had always thought to herself that Shallan could handle the big picture, the Voidbringers and the Unmade. Now she had to confront the truth that she had no idea what to do. She couldn’t get to the Oathgate. It was guarded by an ancient spren that could get inside her brain.

The whole city was depending on her, but she hadn’t even been able to save a little beggar boy. As she curled up on the floor, Grund’s death seemed a shadow of everything else, of her good intentions turned arrogant.

Everywhere she trod, death haunted her. Every face she wore was a lie to pretend she could stop it.

Couldn’t she be somebody who didn’t hurt, just once?

Light pushed shadows before it, long and slender. She blinked, momentarily transfixed. How many days had it been since she’d seen light? A figure stepped into the common room outside her little hole of a chamber. She was still in the long room Muri had lived in.

She sniffled softly.

The newcomer brought his light to her doorway, then carefully stepped inside and settled down across from her, his back against the wall. The room was narrow enough that his legs stretched out and touched the wall beside her. She had hers drawn up, knees against her chest, head resting on them.

Wit didn’t speak. He put his sphere on the floor, and let her have the silence.

“I should have known better,” she finally whispered.

“Perhaps,” Wit said.

“Giving out so much food only drew predators. Foolish. I should have focused on the Oathgate.”

“Again, perhaps.”

“It’s so hard, Wit. When I wear Veil’s face … I … I have to think like her. Seeing the larger scope grows difficult when she takes over. And I want her to take over, because she’s not me.”

“The thieves who killed that child have been seen to,” Wit said.

She looked up at him.

“When some of the men in the market heard what had happened,” Wit continued, “they finally formed the militia they’d been talking about. They rushed the Grips, forcing them to give up the murderer, then disperse. I apologize for not acting sooner; I had been distracted by other tasks. You’ll be pleased to know that some of the food you gave away was still in their base.”

“Was it worth that boy’s life?” Shallan whispered.

“I cannot judge the worth of a life. I would not dare to attempt it.”

“Muri said it would be better if I were dead.”

“As I lack the experience to decide the worth of a life, I sincerely doubt that she has somehow obtained it. You tried to help the people of the market. You mostly failed. This is life. The longer you live, the more you fail. Failure is the mark of a life well lived. In turn, the only way to live without failure is to be of no use to anyone. Trust me, I’ve practiced.”

She sniffled, looking away. “I have to become Veil to escape the memories, but I don’t have the experience that she pretends to have. I haven’t lived her life.”

“No,” Wit said softly. “You’ve lived a harsher one, haven’t you?”

“Yet still, somehow, a naive one.” She drew in a deep, ragged breath. She had to stop this. She knew she had to get over the tantrum and go back to the tailor’s shop.

She’d do it. She’d shove all this into the back of her mind, with everything else she ignored. They could all fester together.

Wit settled back. “Have you heard the story of the Girl Who Looked Up?”

Shallan didn’t reply.

“It’s a story from long ago,” Wit said. He cupped his hands around the sphere on the floor. “Things were different in that time. A wall kept out the storms, but everyone ignored it. All but one girl, who looked up one day, and contemplated it.”

“Why is there a wall?” Shallan whispered.

“Oh, so you do know it? Good.” He leaned down, blowing at the crem dust on the floor. It swirled up, making a figure of a girl. It gave the brief impression of her standing before a wall, but then disintegrated back into dust. He tried again, and it swirled a little higher this time, but still fell back to dust.

“A little help?” he asked. He pushed a bag of spheres across the ground toward Shallan.

Shallan sighed, then picked up the bag and drew in the Stormlight. It started to rage within her, demanding to be used, so she stood up and breathed out, Weaving it into an illusion she’d done once before. A pristine village, and a young girl standing and looking upward, toward an impossibly tall wall in the distance.

The illusion made the room seem to vanish. Somehow, Shallan painted the walls and ceiling in precisely the right way, making them disappear into the landscape—become part of it. She hadn’t made them invisible; they were merely covered up in a way that made it seem Shallan and Wit were standing in another place.

This was … this was more than she’d ever done before. But was she really doing it? Shallan shook her head and stepped up beside the girl, who wore long scarves.

Wit stepped up on the other side. “Hmmm,” he said. “Not bad. But it’s not dark enough.”

“What?”

“I thought you knew the story,” Wit said, tapping the air. The color and light bled from her illusion, leaving them standing in the darkness of night, lit only by a frail set of stars. The wall was an enormous blot before them. “In these days, there was no light.”

“No light…”

“Of course, even without light, people still had to live, didn’t they? That’s what people do. I hasten to guess it’s the first thing they learn how to do. So they lived in the darkness, farmed in the darkness, ate in the darkness.” He waved behind him. People stumbled about in the village, feeling their way to different activities, barely able to see by the starlight.

In this context, strange though it seemed, some pieces of the story as she’d told it made sense. When the girl went up to people and asked, “Why is there a wall?” it was obvious why they found it so easy to ignore.

The illusion followed Wit’s words as the girl in the scarves asked several people about the wall. Don’t go beyond it, or you shall die.

“And so,” Wit said, “she decided that the only way she’d find answers would be to climb the wall herself.” He glanced at Shallan. “Was she stupid or bold?”

“How should I know?”

“Wrong answer. She was both.”

“It wasn’t stupid. If nobody asked questions, then we would never learn anything.”

“What of the wisdom of her elders?”

“They offered no explanation for why she shouldn’t ask about the wall! No rationalization, no justification. There’s a difference between listening to your elders and just being as frightened as everyone else.”

Wit smiled, the sphere in his hand lighting his face. “Funny, isn’t it, how so many of our stories start the same way, but have opposing endings? In half, the child ignores her parents, wanders out into the woods, and gets eaten. In the other half she discovers great wonders. There aren’t many stories about the kids who say, ‘Yes, I shall not go into the forest. I’m glad my parents explained that is where the monsters live.’ ”

“Is that what you’re trying to teach me, then?” Shallan snapped. “The fine distinction between choosing for yourself and ignoring good advice?”

“I’m a terrible teacher.” He waved his hand as the girl reached the wall after a long hike. She started to climb. “Fortunately, I am an artist, and not a teacher.”

“People learn things from art.”

“Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.”

Shallan rolled her eyes.

“Take this fork,” Wit said. He waved his hand. Some of her Stormlight split off from her, spinning above his hand and making an image of a floating fork in the darkness. “It has a use. Eating. Now, if it were to be ornamented by a master artisan, would that change its function?” The fork grew intricate embossing in the form of growing leaves. “No, of course not. It has the same use, ornamented or not. The art is the part that serves no purpose.”

“It makes me happy, Wit. That’s a purpose.”

He grinned, and the fork disappeared.

“Weren’t we in the middle of a story about a girl climbing a wall?” Shallan asked.

“Yes, but that part takes forever,” he said. “I’m finding things to occupy us.”

“We could just skip the boring part.”

“Skip?” Wit said, aghast. “Skip part of a story?”

Shallan snapped her fingers, and the illusion shifted so that they stood atop the wall in the darkness. The girl in the scarves finally—after toiling many days—pulled herself up beside them.

“You wound me,” Wit said. “What happens next?”

“The girl finds steps,” Shallan said. “And the girl realizes that the wall wasn’t to keep something in, but to keep her and her people out.”

“Because?”

“Because we’re monsters.”

Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.”

“I am.”

“No. For you see, it flows the other direction. You are not worse for your association with the world, but it is better for its association with you.”

She pressed against him, shivering. “What do I do, Wit?” she whispered. “I know … I know I shouldn’t be in so much pain. I had to…” She took a deep breath. “I had to kill them. I had to. But now I’ve said the words, and I can’t ignore it anymore. So I should … should just die too, for having done it.…”

Wit waved to the side, toward where the girl in the scarves still overlooked a new world. What was that long pack she had set down beside her?

“So you remember,” Wit said gently, “the rest of the story?”

“It’s not important. We found the moral already. The wall kept people out.”

“Why?”

“Because…” What had she told Pattern before, when she’d been showing him this story?

“Because,” Wit said, pointing, “beyond the wall was God’s Light.”

It burst alight in a sudden explosion: a brilliant and powerful brightness that lit the landscape beyond the wall. Shallan gasped as it shone over them. The girl in the scarves gasped in turn, and saw the world in all its colors for the first time.

“She climbed down the steps,” Shallan whispered, watching the girl run down the steps, scarves streaming behind her. “She hid among the creatures who lived on this side. She sneaked up to the Light and she brought it back with her. To the other side. To the … to the land of shadows…”

“Yes indeed,” Wit said as the scene played out, the girl in the scarves slipping up to the grand source of light, then breaking off a little piece in her hand.

An incredible chase.

The girl climbing the steps frantically.

A crazed descent.

And then … light, for the first time in the village, followed by the coming of the storms—boiling over the wall.

“The people suffered,” Wit said, “but each storm brought light renewed, for it could never be put back, now that it had been taken. And people, for all their hardship, would never choose to go back. Not now that they could see.”

The illusion faded, leaving the two of them standing in the common room of the building, Muri’s little chamber off to the side. Shallan pulled back, ashamed at having wept on his shirt.

“Do you wish,” Wit asked, “that you could go back to not being able to see?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then live. And let your failures be part of you.”

“That sounds … that sounds an awful lot like a moral, Wit. Like you’re trying to do something useful.”

“Well, as I said, we all fail now and then.” He swept his hands to the sides, as if brushing something away from Shallan. Stormlight curled out from her right and left, swirling, then forming into two identical versions of Shallan. They stood with ruddy hair, mottled faces, and sweeping white coats that belonged to someone else.

“Wit…” she started.

“Hush.” He walked up to one of the illusions, inspecting it, tapping his chin with his index finger. “A lot has happened to this poor girl, hasn’t it?”

“Many people have suffered more and they get along fine.”

“Fine?”

Shallan shrugged, unable to banish the truths she’d spoken. The distant memory of singing to her father as she strangled him. The people she’d failed, the problems she’d caused. The illusion of Shallan to the left gasped, then backed up against the wall of the room, shaking her head. She collapsed, head down against her legs, curling up.

“Poor fool,” Shallan whispered. “Everything she tries only makes the world worse. She was broken by her father, then broke herself in turn. She’s worthless, Wit.” She gritted her teeth, found herself sneering. “It’s not really her fault, but she’s still worthless.”

Wit grunted, then pointed at the second illusion, standing behind them. “And that one?”

“No different,” Shallan said, tiring of this game. She gave the second illusion the same memories. Father. Helaran. Failing Jasnah. Everything.

The illusory Shallan stiffened. Then set her jaw and stood there.

“Yes, I see,” Wit said, strolling up to her. “No different.”

“What are you doing to my illusions?” Shallan snapped.

“Nothing. They’re the same in every detail.”

“Of course they’re not,” Shallan said, tapping the illusion, feeling it. A sense pulsed through her from it, memories and pain. And … and something smothering them …

Forgiveness. For herself.

She gasped, pulling her finger back as if it had been bitten.

“It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan … it’s okay to live on.”

She shook her head.

“Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing. You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.”

“Then I’ll never control it.” She blinked tears.

“No,” Wit said. He nodded toward the version of her still standing up. “You will, Shallan. If you do not trust yourself, can you trust me? For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies. I promise you, that woman is worth protecting. You are worth protecting.”

She nodded toward the illusion of herself still standing. “I can’t be her. She’s just another fabrication.”

Both illusions vanished. “I see only one woman here,” Wit said. “And it’s the one who is standing up. Shallan, that has always been you. You just have to admit it. Allow it.” He whispered to her. “It’s all right to hurt.”

He picked up his pack, then unfolded something from inside it. Veil’s hat. He pressed the hat into her palm.

Shockingly, morning light was shining in the doorway. Had she been here all night, huddled in this hole of a room?

“Wit?” she asked. “I … I can’t do it.”

He smiled. “There are certain things I know, Shallan. This is one of them. You can. Find the balance. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.”

Pattern hummed in appreciation of that. But, it wasn’t as easy as Wit said. She took in a breath, and felt … a shiver run through her. Wit collected his things, pack over his shoulder. He smiled, then stepped out into the light.

Shallan released her breath, feeling foolish. She followed Wit out into the light, emerging into the market, which hadn’t quite woken up yet. She didn’t see Wit outside, but that was no surprise. He had a way of being where he shouldn’t, but not being where you’d expect.

Carrying Veil’s hat, she walked the street, feeling odd to be herself in trousers and coat. Red hair, but a safehand glove. Should she hide?

Why? This felt … fine. She walked all the way back to the tailor’s shop and peeked in. Adolin sat at a table inside, bleary-eyed.

He stood upright. “Shallan? We were worried! Vathah said you should have come back!”

“I—”

He embraced her, and she relaxed into him. She felt … better. Not well yet. It was all still there. But something about Wit’s words …

I see only one woman here. The one who is standing up.

Adolin still held her for a time, as if he needed to reassure himself. “I know you’re fine, of course,” he said. “I mean, you’re basically unkillable, right?” Finally, he pulled back—still holding her shoulders—and looked down at her outfit. Should she explain?

“Nice,” Adolin said. “Shallan, that’s sharp. The red on white.” He stepped back, nodding. “Did Yokska make that for you? Let me see the hat on you.”

Oh, Adolin, she thought, pulling on the hat.

“The jacket is a hair too loose,” Adolin said. “But the style is a really good match. Bold. Crisp.” He cocked his head. “Would look better with a sword at your waist. Maybe…” He trailed off. “Do you hear that?”

She turned, frowning. It sounded like marching. “A parade this early?”

They looked out at the street and found Kaladin approaching along with what seemed to be an army of five or six hundred men, wearing the uniforms of the Wall Guard.

Adolin sighed softly. “Of course. He’s probably their leader now or something. Storming bridgeboy.”

Kaladin marched his men right up to the front of the tailor’s shop. She and Adolin stepped out to meet him, and she heard Elhokar scrambling down the steps inside, shouting at what he’d apparently seen out the window.

Kaladin was speaking softly with a woman in armor, helm under her arm, face crossed by a pair of scars. Highmarshal Azure was younger than Shallan had expected.

The soldiers grew hushed as they saw Adolin, then the king, who was already dressed.

“So that’s what you meant,” Azure said to Kaladin.

“Stormblessed?” Elhokar asked. “What is this?”

“You’ve been wanting an army to attack the palace, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “Well, we’re ready.”

83. Crimson to Break

Adolin Kholin washed his face with a splash of cold water, then rubbed it clean with a washrag. He was tired—he’d spent much of the night fretting about Shallan’s failure to return. Below, in the shop proper, he could hear the others stomping about as they made last-minute preparations for the assault.

An assault on the palace, his home for many years. He took a deep breath.

Something was wrong. He fidgeted, checking his belt knife, the emergency bandages in his pocket. He checked the glyphward Shallan had made him at his request—determination—wrapped around his forearm. Then he finally realized what was bothering him.

He summoned his Shardblade.

It was thick at the base, as wide as a man’s palm, and the front waved like the ripples of a moving eel. The back had small crystalline protrusions growing out of it. No sheath could hold a weapon like this, and no mortal sword could imitate it—not without growing unusably heavy. You knew a Shardblade when you saw one. That was the point.

Adolin held the weapon before him in the lavatory, looking at his reflection in the metal. “I don’t have my mother’s necklace,” he said, “or any of the other traditions I used to follow. I never really needed those. I’ve only ever needed you.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess … I guess you used to be alive. The others say they can hear your screaming if they touch you. That you’re dead, yet somehow still in pain. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about that, but … thank you. Thank you for assisting me all these years. And if it helps, I’m going to use you to do something good today. I’ll try to always use you that way.”

He felt better as he dismissed the Blade. Of course, he carried another weapon: his belt knife, long and thin. A weapon intended for stabbing armored men.

It had felt so satisfying to shove it through Sadeas’s eye. He still didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or proud. He sighed, checked himself in the mirror, then made another quick decision.

When he walked down the steps to the main room a short time later, he was wearing his Kholin uniform. His skin missed the softer silk and better form of the tailored outfit, but he found he walked taller in this one. Despite the fact that a part of him, deep down, worried he didn’t deserve to bear his father’s glyphs any longer.

He nodded to Elhokar, who was speaking with the strange woman known as Highmarshal Azure. “My scouts have been driven back,” she said. “But they saw enough, Your Majesty. The Voidbringer army is here, in its strength. They’ll attack today or tomorrow for certain.”

“Well,” Elhokar said. “I suppose I understand why you did what you had to in taking control of the Guard. I can’t very well have you hanged as a usurper. Good work, Highmarshal.”

“I … appreciate that?”

Shallan, Kaladin, Skar, and Drehy were standing with a palace map. They needed to memorize the layout. Adolin and Elhokar, of course, already knew it. Shallan had chosen not to change out of the fetching white outfit she’d been wearing earlier. It would be more functional for an assault than a skirt. Storms, there was something about a woman in trousers and a coat.

Elhokar left Azure to take reports from some of her men. Nearby in the room, a few lighteyed men saluted him—the highlords he and Adolin had revealed themselves to the night before. All they’d needed to do was walk away from the spheres powering their illusions, and their true faces had become manifest.

Some of these men were opportunists, but many were loyalists. They’d brought some hundred men-at-arms with them—not as many as Kaladin had brought from the Wall Guard, but still, Elhokar seemed proud of what he had done in gathering them. As well he should.

Together, he and Adolin joined the Radiants near the front of the shop. Elhokar waved for the highlords to join them, then spoke firmly. “Is everyone clear?” Elhokar asked.

“Storm the palace,” Kaladin said. “Seize the Sunwalk, cross to the Oathgate platform, hold it while Shallan tries to drive away the Unmade like she did in Urithiru. Then we activate the Oathgate, and bring troops to Kholinar.”

“The control building is completely overgrown with that black heart, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I don’t truly know how I drove away the Midnight Mother—and I certainly don’t know that I’ll be able to do the same here.”

“But you’re willing to try?” the king asked.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. Adolin squeezed her on the shoulder reassuringly.

“Windrunner,” the king said. “The duty I give you and your men is to get Queen Aesudan and the heir to safety. If the Oathgate works, we take them that way. If not, you must fly them out of the city.”

Adolin glanced at the highlords, who seemed to be taking all of this—the arrival of Knights Radiant, the king’s decision to storm his own palace—in stride. He knew a little of how they felt. Voidbringers, Everstorm, corrupted spren in the city … eventually, you stopped being shocked at what happened to you.

“Are we sure this path across the Sunwalk is the best way?” Kaladin asked, pointing at the map Drehy was holding. He moved his finger from the palace’s eastern gallery, along the Sunwalk onto the Oathgate platform.

Adolin nodded. “It’s the best way to the Oathgate. Those narrow steps up the outside of that plateau would be murder to storm. Our best chance is to go up the palace’s front steps, bring down the doors with our Shardblades, and fight through the entryway to the eastern gallery. From there, you can go up to the right to reach the king’s quarters, or go straight across the Sunwalk.”

“I don’t relish fighting along this corridor,” Kaladin said. “We have to assume that the Fused will join the battle on the side of the Palace Guard.”

“It’s possible I can distract them, if they do come,” Shallan said.

Kaladin grunted and didn’t complain further. He saw, as Adolin did. This wasn’t going to be an easy fight—there were a lot of choke points the defenders could use. But what else could they do?

In the distance, drums had begun sounding. From the walls. Kaladin looked toward them.

“Another raid?” one of the highlords asked.

“Worse,” Kaladin said as, behind them, Azure cursed softly. “That’s the signal that the city’s under attack.”

Azure pushed out the front doors of the tailor’s shop, and the rest of them followed. Most of the six hundred men here belonged to the Wall Guard, and some stepped toward the distant walls, gripping spears and shields.

“Steady, men,” Azure called. “Your Majesty, the bulk of my soldiers are dying on the wall in a hopeless fight. I’m here because Stormblessed convinced me that the only way to help them is to take that palace. So if we’re going to do it, the time is now.”

“We march, then!” Elhokar said. “Highmarshal, Brightlords, pass the word to your forces. Organize ranks! We march on the palace at my command!”

Adolin turned as some Fused coursed through the sky along the distant wall. Enemy Surgebinders. Storms. He shook his head and hurried over to Yokska and her husband. They had watched all this—the arrival of an army on their doorstep, the preparations for an assault—with bewilderment.

“If the city holds,” Adolin said, “you’ll be fine. But if it falls…” He took a deep breath. “Reports from other cities indicate that there won’t be wholesale slaughter. The Voidbringers are here to occupy, not exterminate. I’d still suggest you prepare to flee the city and make your way to the Shattered Plains.”

“The Shattered Plains?” Yokska asked, aghast. “But Brightlord, that’s hundreds and hundreds of miles!”

“I know,” he said, wincing. “Thank you so much for taking us in. We’re going to do what we can to stop this.”

Nearby, Elhokar approached the timid ardent who had come with Azure. He had been hurriedly painting glyphwards for the soldiers, and jumped as Elhokar took him by the shoulder and shoved an object into his hand.

“What’s this?” the ardent asked, nervous.

“It’s a spanreed,” Elhokar said. “A half hour after my army marches, you are to contact Urithiru and warn them to get their forces ready to transfer here, via the Oathgate.”

“I can’t use a fabrial! The screamers—”

“Steady, man! The enemy may be too preoccupied by their attack to notice you. But even if they do, you must take the risk. Our armies must be ready. The fate of the city could depend upon this.”

The ardent nodded, pale.

Adolin joined the troops, calming his nerves by force. Just another battle. He’d been in dozens, if not hundreds of those. But storms, he was used to empty fields of stone, not streets.

Nearby, a small group of guardsmen chatted softly. “We’ll be fine,” one of them was saying. He was a shorter man, clean-shaven, though he had strikingly hairy arms. “I tell you, I saw my own death up there on the wall. She streaked toward me, lance held right toward my heart. I looked in those red eyes, and I saw myself dying. Then … he was there. He shot from the tower window like an arrow and crashed into the Voidbringer. That spear was meant for my life, and he changed fate, I tell you. I swear, he was glowing when he did it.…”

We’re entering an era of gods, Adolin thought.

Elhokar raised his Shardblade high and gave the command. They marched through the city, passing worried refugees. Rows of buildings with doors shut tight, as if in preparation for a storm. Eventually, the palace rose before the army like an obsidian block. The very stones seemed to have changed color.

Adolin summoned his Shardblade, and the sight of it seemed to give comfort to the men nearby. Their march took them toward the northern section of the city, near the city wall. Here, the Fused were visible, attacking the troops. A strange thumping started, and Adolin took it as another set of drums—until a head crested the top of the wall nearest them.

Storms! It had an enormous stone wedge of a face that reminded him of that of some greatshell beast, though its eyes were just red spots glowing from deep within.

The monster pulled itself up by one arm. It didn’t seem quite as tall as the city walls, but it was still enormous. Fused buzzed about as it swatted along the wall—spraying defenders like cremlings—then smashed a guard tower.

Adolin realized that he, along with much of their force, had stopped to stare at the daunting sight. The ground trembled as stones tumbled down a few blocks away, smashing into buildings.

“Keep moving!” Azure called. “Storms! They’re trying to get in and beat us to the palace!”

The monster ripped apart the guard tower, then with a casual flip tossed a boulder the size of a horse toward them. Adolin gaped, feeling powerless as the rock inexorably hurtled toward him and the troops.

Kaladin rose into the air on a streak of light.

He hit the stone and rolled with it, twisting and tumbling in the air. His glow diminished severely.

The boulder lurched. It somehow changed momentum, tossed away from Kaladin like a pebble flicked off the table. It crested the city wall, narrowly missing the monster that had thrown it. Adolin faintly heard spren begin to scream, but that was drowned out by the sounds of rock falling and people on the streets shouting.

Kaladin renewed himself with Stormlight from his pack. He was carrying most of the gemstones they’d brought from Urithiru, a wealth from the emerald reserve, to use in their mission and in opening the Oathgate.

Drehy rose into the air beside him, then Skar, who had Lashed Shallan upward as well. Adolin knew she was basically immortal, but it was still strange to see her here, on the front lines.

“We’ll distract the Fused,” Kaladin shouted to Adolin, pointing at a group of figures flying through the air in their direction. “And—if we can—we’ll seize the Sunwalk. Get in through the palace, and meet with us in the eastern gallery!”

They zipped off. In the near distance, the monster started pounding on the gates there, cracking and splintering the wood.

“Forward!” Azure yelled.

Adolin charged, running up beside Elhokar and Azure. They reached the palace grounds and surged up the steps. At the top, soldiers in very similar uniforms—black and a darker blue, but still Kholin—withdrew, shutting the palace’s front doors.

“King’s Guard,” Adolin shouted, pointing at a group of men in red who had been designated as Elhokar’s honor guard. “Be sure to watch the king’s flanks as he cuts! Don’t let the enemy strike at him as the door falls!”

Men crowded up the steps, taking positions along the front of the palace’s front porch. They held spears, though some were lighteyed. Adolin, Azure, and Elhokar each went to a separate door atop the steps. Here, the front of the palace roof—held up by thick columns—shielded them from the stones that the creature was flinging.

Teeth gritted, Adolin rammed his Blade into the crack between the thick wooden palace door and the wall. He swiped upward quickly, cutting through both hinges and the bar that had been thrown on the inside. After another slice down the other side freed the door, he stepped back into position. It fell inward with a crash.

Immediately, the enemy soldiers inside rammed spears outward, hoping to catch Adolin. He danced back, and didn’t dare swing. Wielding a Shardblade with one hand was a challenge, even when you didn’t have to worry about hitting your own men.

He skipped to the side and let the Wall Guard attack the doorway. Adolin, instead, moved over beside a group of soldiers who had come with Highlord Urimil. Here, Adolin cut through a section of the wall, making an improvised doorway that the soldiers shoved open. He moved down the long porch, opening another, then a third.

That done, he peeked in on Elhokar, who had stepped through his felled door, and was now inside the palace. He swept about himself with his Blade in a one-handed grip, shield held in the other. He opened a pocket in the enemy soldiers, having killed dozens already.

Careful, Elhokar, Adolin thought. Remember, you don’t have Plate. Adolin pointed at a platoon of soldiers. “Reinforce the King’s Guard, and make sure he doesn’t get overwhelmed. If he does, shout for me.”

They saluted, and Adolin stepped back. Azure had cut down her door, but her Shardblade wasn’t as long as the other two. She was leading a more conservative attack, cutting the ends off spears as they rammed out toward her men. As he watched, she stabbed an enemy soldier who tried to push through. Remarkably, his eyes didn’t burn, though his skin did go a strange ashen grey as he died.

Blood of my fathers, Adolin thought. What’s wrong with her Blade?

Even with all the opened doorways, getting into the palace was slow going. The men inside had formed shield-wall rings around the doorways, and the fighting mostly happened with men using short spears to stab at each other. Some platoons of Wall Guard brought in longer pikes to break the ranks of defenders, preparing for a surge.

“You men ever flank-shielded a Shardbearer?” Adolin said to the nearest squad of soldiers.

“No sir,” said one of the men. “But we’ve done the training.…”

“It’ll have to do,” Adolin said, taking his Blade in two hands. “I’m going in that center hole. Stay close and keep the spears off my sides. I’ll be careful not to catch you in my sweeps.”

“Yes, sir!” their squadleader said.

Adolin took a deep breath, then approached the opening. The interior bristled with spears. Like the proverbial whitespine’s den.

At Adolin’s instruction, a soldier on his side faced his men and did a countdown with one hand. As the last finger dropped, the soldiers at the doorway fell back. Adolin charged through into the palace entry hall, with its marble floors and high vaulted ceilings.

The enemy thrust a dozen spears at him. He ducked low, taking a slice on the shoulder as he did a two-handed sweep, cutting a group of soldiers at the knees. The enemy dropped, their legs ruined by the Shardblade.

Four men followed him in and raised shields at his sides. Adolin attacked forward, hacking the fronts off spears, cutting at hands. Storms … the men he fought were too silent. They’d cry in pain if stabbed, or grunt with exertion, but they otherwise seemed muted—as if the darkness smothered their emotions.

Adolin took his Blade in an overhead grip and fell into Stonestance, swiping down with precise cuts, felling man after man in a careful, controlled set of strikes. His soldiers protected his flanks, while the wide reach of the Blade protected his front.

Eyes burned. The shield line wavered. “Fall back three steps!” Adolin shouted to his men, then transitioned to Windstance and swept outward with wide, flowing sweeps.

In the passion and beauty of dueling, he sometimes forgot how terrible a weapon Shardblades were. Here, as he rampaged among the faltering line, it was all too obvious. He killed eight men in a moment, and completely destroyed the defensive line.

“Go!” he shouted, pointing with his Blade. Men surged through the doorway and seized the ground just inside the entry hall. Nearby, Elhokar stood tall, his narrow Shardblade glittering as he called commands. Soldiers fell, dying and cursing—the true sounds of battle. The price of conflict.

The enemy finally broke, falling back through the entry hall—which was too large to hold—toward the narrower hallway leading to the eastern gallery.

“Pull out the wounded!” Azure called, stepping in. “Seventh Company, hold that far side of the room, make sure they don’t try to rush back in. Third Company, sweep the wings and make sure there aren’t any surprises.”

Curiously, Azure had removed her cloak and wrapped it half around her left arm. Adolin had never seen anything like it; perhaps she was accustomed to fighting in Plate.

Adolin got some water, then let a surgeon bandage the shallow cut he’d taken. Though the depths of the palace felt like caverns, this entryway was glorious. Walls of marble, polished and reflective. Grand staircases, and a bright red rug down the center. He’d burned that as a child once, playing with a candle.

Cut bandaged, he joined Azure, Elhokar, and several of the highlords, who were studying the wide corridor that led to the eastern gallery. The enemy had formed an excellent shield wall here. They’d settled in, and men in the second rank had crossbows ready and waiting.

“That’s going to be crimson to break,” Azure said. “We’ll fight for every inch.”

Outside, the crashing at the gate finally grew silent.

“They’re in,” Adolin guessed. “That breach isn’t far from here.”

Highlord Shaday grunted. “Maybe our enemies will turn against one another? Can we hope the Voidbringers and the Palace Guard will start fighting each other?”

“No,” Elhokar said. “The forces that have darkened the palace belong to the enemy who now fights quickly to reach us. They know the danger the Oathgate presents.”

“Agreed,” Adolin said. “This palace will soon be swarming with parshman troops.”

“Gather your men,” Elhokar said to the group. “Azure has command of the assault. Highmarshal, you must clear this hallway.”

One of the highlords looked at the woman and cleared his throat, but then decided not to say anything.

Grim, Azure commanded archers to use shortbows to try to soften the enemy. But that shield wall was built to hold out against arrows, so Azure gave the order, and her men advanced against the fortified enemy.

Adolin looked away as the corridor became a meat grinder, crossbow bolts smacking against men in waves. The Wall Guard had shields too, but they had to risk advancing, and a crossbow could punch.

Adolin had never been good at this part of battlefield fighting. Storm it, he wanted to be at the front, leading the charge. The rational part of him knew that would be stupid. You didn’t risk your Shardbearers in such a charge, not unless they had Plate.

“Your Majesty,” an officer called to Elhokar, crossing the entryway. “We found an oddity.”

Elhokar nodded for Adolin to take care of it, and—glad for the distraction—he jogged over to meet up with the man. “What?”

“Closed door to the palace garrison,” the man said, “rigged to lock from the outside.”

Curious. Adolin hiked after the man, passing an improvised triage station where a couple of surgeons knelt among painspren, seeing to men who had been wounded in the initial assault. They’d be far busier once the push down the hallway was finished.

To the west of the entryway was the palace garrison, a large housing for soldiers. A group of Azure’s men were studying the door—which had indeed been rigged to lock shut from the outside with a metal bar. Judging from the splintered wood, whatever was inside had tried to get out.

“Open it,” Adolin said, summoning his Shardblade.

The soldiers cautiously lifted aside the bar, then eased open the door, one holding out some spheres for light. They didn’t find monsters, but a group of dirty men in Palace Guard uniforms. They had gathered at the noise outside, and at seeing Adolin, a few of them fell to their knees, letting out relieved praises to the Almighty.

“Your Highness?” said a younger Alethi man with captain’s knots on his shoulder. “Oh, Prince Adolin. It is you. Or is this … is this somehow a cruel deception?”

“It’s me,” Adolin said. “Sidin? Storms, man! I barely recognize you through that beard. What happened?”

“Sir! Something’s wrong with the queen. First she killed that ardent, and then executed Brightlord Kaves.…” He took a deep breath. “We’re traitors, sir.”

“She culled the Guard, sir,” another man said. “Locked us in here because we wouldn’t obey. Practically forgot about us.”

Adolin breathed out a relieved sigh. The fact that the entire Guard hadn’t simply gone along with her … well, it lifted a burden from his shoulders, one he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“We’re taking back the palace,” Adolin said. “Gather your men, Sidin, and meet up with the surgeons in the main entryway. They’ll look you over, get you some water, take your reports.”

“Sir!” Sidin said. “If you’re storming the palace, we want to join you.” Many of the others nodded.

“Join us? You’ve been locked in here for weeks, men! I don’t expect that you’re fit for combat.”

“Weeks?” Sidin said. “Surely it’s only been a few days, Brightlord.” He scratched at a beard that seemed to argue with that sentiment. “We’ve only eaten … what, three times since being thrown in here?”

Several of the others nodded.

“Take them to the surgeons,” Adolin said to the scouts who had fetched him. “But … get spears for the ones who claim to be strong enough to hold them. Sidin, your men will be reserves. Don’t push yourselves too hard.”

Back in the main entryway, Adolin passed a surgeon working on a man in a Palace Guard uniform. To the surgeons, it didn’t matter if you were an enemy—they were helping any who needed their attention. That was fine, but this man stared up with glazed eyes, and didn’t cry or groan like a wounded man should. He only whispered to himself.

I know him too, Adolin realized, searching for the name. Dod? That’s it. That’s what we called him, anyway.

He reported to the king what he’d found. Ahead, Azure’s men were making a final push to claim the hallway. They’d left dozens dying, staining the carpet a darker shade of red. Adolin had the distinct sense that he could hear something. Over the din of the fighting, over the shouts of men echoing against the walls. A quiet voice that somehow cut to his soul.

Passion. Sweet passion.

The Palace Guard finally relinquished the hallway, retreating through two sets of broad double doors at the other end. Those would lead to the eastern gallery; the doors weren’t very defensible, but the enemy was obviously trying to buy as much time as possible.

Some soldiers cleared bodies out of the way, preparing the way for Adolin and Elhokar to cut down the doors. The wood, however, started shaking before they could strike. Adolin backed up, presenting his Blade in Windstance by habit, ready to strike at what came through.

The door opened, revealing a glowing figure.

“Stormfather…” Adolin whispered.

Kaladin shone with a powerful brilliance, his eyes beacons of blue, streaming with Stormlight. He gripped a glowing metallic spear that was easily twelve feet long. Behind him, Skar and Drehy also glowed brilliantly, looking little like the affable bridgemen who had protected Adolin on the Shattered Plains.

“The gallery is secure,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing from his lips. “The enemy you pushed back has fled up the steps. Your Majesty, I suggest you send Azure’s men onto the Sunwalk to hold it.”

Adolin ducked into the eastern gallery, followed by a flood of soldiers, Azure calling commands. Straight ahead was the entrance to the Sunwalk, an open-sided walkway. On it, Adolin was surprised to see not only guard corpses, but three prominent bodies in blue. Kaladin, Skar, Drehy. Illusions?

“Worked better than fighting them off,” Shallan said, stepping up to his side. “The flying ones are distracted by the fighting at the city wall, so they left the moment they thought the bridgemen had fallen.”

“We pushed another force of Palace Guards back into the monastery first,” Kaladin said, pointing. “We’re going to need an army to scrape them out.”

Azure looked to Elhokar, who nodded, so she started giving the commands. Shallan clicked her tongue, prodding at Adolin’s bandaged shoulder, but he assured her it was nothing serious.

The king strode through the gallery, then looked up the broad stairs.

“Your Majesty?” Kaladin called.

“I’m going to lead a force up to the royal chambers,” Elhokar said. “Someone needs to find out what happened to Aesudan, what happened to this whole storming city.”

The glow faded from Kaladin’s eyes, his Stormlight running low. His clothing seemed to droop, his feet settling more solidly on the ground. He suddenly seemed a man again, and Adolin found that more relaxing.

“I’ll go with him,” Kaladin said softly to Adolin, handing him the pack of emeralds, after picking out two brilliant ones for himself. “Take Skar and Drehy, and get Shallan to the Unmade.”

“Sounds good,” Adolin said. He picked out some soldiers to go with the king: a platoon from the Wall Guard, a handful of the armsmen the highlords had brought. And—after some thought—he added Sidin and half a platoon of the men who had been imprisoned in the palace.

“Those troops refused the queen’s orders,” Adolin said to Elhokar, nodding to Sidin. “They seem to have resisted the influence of whatever’s going on in here, and they’ll know the palace better than the Wall Guard.”

“Excellent,” Elhokar said, then started up the steps. “Don’t wait for us. If Brightness Davar is successful, go right to Urithiru and bring our armies back.”

Adolin nodded, then gave Kaladin a quick salute—tapping his wrists together with hands in fists. The Bridge Four salute. “Good luck, bridgeboy.”

Kaladin smiled, his silvery spear vanishing as he gave the salute back, then hustled after the king. Adolin jogged over to Shallan, who was staring along the Sunwalk. Azure had claimed it with her soldiers, but hadn’t advanced onto the Oathgate platform beyond.

Adolin rested his hand on Shallan’s shoulder.

“They’re there,” she whispered. “Two of them, this time. Last night, Adolin … I had to run. The revel was getting inside my head.”

“I’ve heard it,” he said, resummoning his Blade. “We’ll face it together. Like last time.”

Shallan took a deep breath, then summoned Pattern as a Shardblade. She held the Blade before herself in a common stance.

“Good form,” Adolin said.

“I had a good teacher.”

They advanced across the Sunwalk, passing fallen enemy soldiers—and a single dead Fused, pinned to a cleft in the rock by what appeared to be his own lance. Shallan lingered at the corpse, but Adolin pulled her along until they reached the monastery proper. Azure’s soldiers advanced at his command, engaging Palace Guards here to secure a path toward the center.

As they waited, Adolin stepped up to the edge of the plateau and surveyed the city. His home.

It was falling.

The nearest gate had been broken completely open, and parshmen flooded through it toward the palace. Others had taken the walls via ladder crews, and those were pushing down into the city at other points, including near the palace gardens.

That enormous stone monstrosity moved along the wall on the inside, reaching up and slapping at guard towers. A large group of people in varied costumes had surged down Talan Way, passing along one of the windblades. The Cult of Moments? He couldn’t be certain what part they’d played, but parshmen were flooding the city in that direction as well.

We can fix this, Adolin thought. We can bring our armies in, hold the palace hill, push back to the walls. They had dozens of Shardbearers. They had Bridge Four and other Surgebinders. They could save this city.

He just needed to get them here.

Soon, Azure approached with a platoon of thirty men. “The pathway inward is secure, though a knot of the enemy still holds the very center. I’ve spared a few men to scour nearby buildings. It looks like the people you mentioned—the ones who were reveling last night—are slumbering inside. They don’t move, even when we prod them.”

Adolin nodded, then led the way toward the center of the plateau, Shallan and Azure following. They passed battle lines of Azure’s soldiers, who were holding the streets. He soon saw the main force of the enemy, collected on a path between monastery buildings, barring the way to the Oathgate’s control building.

Spurred by the urgency of Kholinar’s predicament, Adolin took point and swept among the enemy, burning their eyes with his Blade. He broke their line, though one straggler almost got in a lucky strike. Skar, fortunately, seemed to appear out of nowhere; the bridgeman caught the blow with his shield, then rammed a spear through the guardsman’s chest.

“How many is that I owe you now?” Adolin asked.

“I wouldn’t think to keep count, Brightlord,” Skar said with a grin, glowing light puffing from his lips.

Drehy joined them, and they chased the routed enemy past the King’s Chapel, finally reaching the control building. Adolin had always known it as the Circle of Memories, merely another part of the monastery. As Shallan had warned, it was overgrown with a dark mass that pulsed and throbbed, like a pitch-black heart. Dark veins spread from it like roots, pulsating in time with the heart.

“Storms…” Drehy whispered.

“All right,” Shallan said, walking forward. “Guard this area. I’ll see what I can do.”

84. The One You Can Save

Kaladin charged up the broad stairs, followed by some fifty soldiers.

Stormlight pulsed within him, lending a spring to each step. The Fused had taken time to come attack him on the Sunwalk, and had left soon after Shallan had created her ruse. He could only assume that the city assault was consuming the enemy’s attention, which meant he might be able to use his powers without drawing immediate reprisal.

Elhokar led the way, brilliant Shardblade carried in a two-handed grip. They twisted around at a landing and charged up another flight. Elhokar didn’t seem to care that each step took them farther from the bulk of their army.

“Up the stairs,” he said softly to Syl. “Check for an ambush on each floor.”

“Yessir, commander sir, Radiant sir,” she said, and zipped off. A moment later she zipped back down. “Lots of men on the third floor, but they’re backing away from the stairwell. Doesn’t look like an ambush.”

Kaladin nodded, then slowed Elhokar with a touch on the arm. “We have a reception waiting,” Kaladin said. He pointed at a squad of soldiers. “It seems the king lost his guards somewhere. You’re now them. If we get into combat, keep His Majesty from being surrounded.” He pointed at another group. “You men are … Beard?”

“Yes, Kal?” the stocky guardsman said. He hesitated, then saluted. “Um, sir?” Behind him were Noro, Ved, Alaward, and Vaceslv … Kaladin’s entire squad from the Wall Guard.

Noro shrugged. “Without the captain, we don’t have a proper platoon leader. Figured we should stick with you.”

Beard nodded and rubbed at the glyphward wrapping his right arm. Fortune, it read.

“Good to have you,” Kaladin said. “Try to keep me from being flanked, but give me space if you can.”

“Don’t crowd you,” Lieutenant Noro said, “and don’t let anyone else crowd you either. Can do, sir.”

Kaladin looked to the king and nodded. The two of them took the last few steps up to the landing to emerge into a broad stone hallway, carpeted down the center but otherwise unornamented. Kaladin had expected the palace to be more lavish, but it appeared that even here—in the seat of their power—the Kholins preferred buildings that felt like bunkers. Funny, after hearing them complain that their fortresses on the Shattered Plains lacked comfort.

Syl was right. A platoon of enemy soldiers had formed up down the hall, holding halberds or crossbows, but seemed content to wait. Kaladin prepared Stormlight; he could paint the walls with a power that would cause crossbow bolts to veer aside in their flight, but it was far from a perfect art. It was the power he understood the least.

“Do you not see me?” Elhokar bellowed. “Do you not know your monarch? Are you so far consumed by the touch of the spren that you would kill your own king?”

Storms … those soldiers barely seemed to be breathing. At first they didn’t move—then a few looked backward, down the hallway. Was that a distant voice?

The palace soldiers immediately broke formation and retreated. Elhokar set his jaw, then led the way after them. Each step made Kaladin more anxious. He didn’t have the troops to properly hold their retreat; all he could do was post a pair of men at each intersection, with instructions to yell if they saw someone coming down the cross hallways.

They passed a corridor lined with statues of the Heralds. Nine of them, at least. One was missing. Kaladin sent Syl ahead to watch, but that left him feeling even more exposed. Everyone but him seemed to know the way, which made sense, but it made him feel carried along on some sort of tide.

They finally reached the royal chambers, marked by a broad set of doors, open and inviting. Kaladin stopped his men thirty feet from the opening, near a corridor that split off to the left.

Even from here, he could see that the chamber beyond the doors finally displayed some of the lavish ornamentation he had expected. Rich carpets, too much furniture, everything covered in embroidery or gilding.

“There are soldiers down that smaller hallway to the left,” Syl said, zipping back to him. “There isn’t a single one in the room ahead, but … Kaladin, she’s in there. The queen.”

“I can hear her,” Elhokar said. “That’s her voice, singing.”

I know that tune, Kaladin thought. Something about her soft song was familiar. He wanted to advise caution, but the king was already hurrying forward, a worried squad of men following.

Kaladin sighed, then arranged his remaining men; half stayed back to watch their retreat, and the other half formed up at the left hallway to stare down the Palace Guard. Storms. If this went wrong he’d have a bloodbath on his hands, with the king trapped in the middle.

Still, this was why they’d come up here. He followed the queen’s song and entered the room.

Shallan stepped up to the dark heart. Even though she hadn’t studied human anatomy as much as she’d have liked—her father thought it unfeminine—in the sunlight, she could easily see that it was the wrong shape.

This isn’t a human heart, she decided. Maybe it’s a parshman heart. Or, well, a giant, dark violet spren in the shape of one, growing over the Oathgate control building.

“Shallan,” Adolin said. “We’re running out of time.”

His voice brought to her an awareness of the city around her. Of soldiers skirmishing only one street over. Of distant drums going quiet, one at a time, as guard posts on the wall fell. Of smoke in the air, and a soft, high-pitched roar that seemed the echoes of thousands upon thousands of people shouting in the chaos of a city being conquered.

She tried Pattern first, stabbing him into the heart as a Shardblade. The mass simply split around the Blade. She slashed with it, and the spren cut, then sealed up behind. So. Time to try what she’d done in Urithiru.

Trembling, Shallan closed her eyes and pressed her hand against the heart. It felt real, like warm flesh. Like in Urithiru, touching the thing let her sense it. Feel it. Know it.

It tried to sweep her away.

The queen sat at a vanity beside the wall.

She was much as Kaladin had anticipated. Younger than Elhokar, with long dark Alethi hair, which she was combing. Her song had fallen away to a hum.

“Aesudan?” Elhokar asked.

She looked away from the mirror, then smiled broadly. She had a narrow face, with prim lips painted a deep red. She rose from the seat and glided to him. “Husband! So it was you I heard. You have returned at last? Victorious over our enemies, your father avenged?”

“Yes,” Elhokar said, frowning. He moved to step toward her, but Kaladin grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back.

The queen focused on Kaladin. “New bodyguard, dear one? Far too scruffy; you should have consulted me. You have an image to maintain.”

“Where is Gav, Aesudan? Where is my son?”

“He’s playing with friends.”

Elhokar looked to Kaladin, and gestured to the side with his chin. See what you can find, it seemed to say.

“Keep alert,” Kaladin whispered, then began picking through the room. He passed the remnants of lavish meals only partially eaten. Pieces of fruit each with a single bite taken out of them. Cakes and pastries. Candied meats on sticks. It looked like it should have rotted, based on the decayspren he noticed, but it hadn’t.

“Dear one,” Elhokar said, keeping his distance from the queen, “we heard that the city has seen … trouble lately.”

“One of my ardents tried to refound the Hierocracy. We really should keep better watch on who joins them; not every man or woman is proper for service.”

“You had her executed.”

“Of course. She tried to overthrow us.”

Kaladin picked around a pile of musical instruments of the finest wood, sitting in a heap.

Here, Syl’s voice said in his mind. Across the room. Behind the dressing screen.

He passed the balcony to his left. If he remembered right—though the story had been told so often, he had heard a dozen differing versions—Gavilar and the assassin had fallen off that ledge during their struggles.

“Aesudan,” Elhokar said, his voice pained. He stepped forward, extending his hand. “You’re not well. Please, come with me.”

“Not well?”

“There’s an evil influence in the palace.”

“Evil? Husband, what a fool you are at times.”

Kaladin joined Syl and glanced behind the dressing screen, which had been pushed back against the wall to section off a small cubby. Here a child—two or three years old—huddled and trembled, clutching a stuffed soldier. Several spren with soft red glows were picking at him like cremlings at a corpse. The boy tried to turn his head, and the spren pulled on the back of his hair until he looked up, while others hovered in front of his face and took horrific shapes, like horses with melting faces.

Kaladin reacted with swift, immediate rage. He growled, seizing the Sylblade from the air, forming a small dagger from mist. He drove the dagger forward and caught one of the spren, pinning it to the wall’s wooden paneling. He had never known a Shardblade to cut a spren before, but this worked. The thing screamed in a soft voice, a hundred hands coming from its shape and scraping at the Blade, at the wall, until it seemed to rip into a thousand tiny pieces, then faded.

The other three red spren streaked away in a panic. In his hands, Kaladin felt Syl tremble, then groan softly. He released her, and she took the shape of a small woman. “That was … that was terrible,” she whispered, floating over to land on his shoulder. “Did we … just kill a spren?”

“The thing deserved it,” Kaladin said.

Syl just huddled on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around herself.

The child sniffled. He was dressed in a little uniform. Kaladin glanced back at the king and queen—he’d lost track of their conversation, but they spoke in hissing, furious tones.

“Oh, Elhokar,” the queen was saying. “You were ever so oblivious. Your father had grand plans, but you … all you ever wanted to do was sit in his shadow. It was for the best that you went off to play war.”

“So you could stay here and … and do this?” Elhokar said, waving toward the palace.

“I continued your father’s work! I found the secret, Elhokar. Spren, ancient spren. You can bond with them!”

“Bond…” Elhokar’s mouth worked, as if he couldn’t understand the very word he spoke.

“Have you seen my Radiants?” Aesudan asked. She grinned. “The Queen’s Guard? I’ve done what your father could not. Oh, he found one of the ancient spren, but he could never discover how to bond it. But I, I have solved the riddle.”

In the dim light of the royal chambers, Aesudan’s eyes glittered. Then started to glow a deep red.

“Storms!” Elhokar said, stepping back.

Time to go. Kaladin reached down to try to pick up the child, but the boy screamed and scrambled away from him. That, finally, drew the king’s attention. Elhokar rushed over, throwing aside the dressing screen. He gasped, then knelt beside his son.

The child, Gavinor, scooted away from his father, crying.

Kaladin looked back to the queen. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Planning for my husband’s return?”

“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the thing beyond you.”

She laughed. “Yelig-nar serves me. Or do you speak of the Heart of the Revel? Ashertmarn has no will; he is merely a force of consumption, mindless, to be harnessed.”

Elhokar whispered something to his son. Kaladin couldn’t hear the words, but the child stopped weeping. He looked up, blinked away tears, and finally let his father pick him up. Elhokar cradled the child, who in turn clutched his stuffed soldier. It wore blue armor.

“Out,” Kaladin said.

“But…” The king looked toward his wife.

“Elhokar,” Kaladin said, gripping the king’s shoulder. “Be a hero to the one you can save.”

The king met his eyes, then nodded, clutching the young child. He started toward the door, and Kaladin followed, keeping his eyes on the queen.

She sighed loudly, stepping after them. “I feared this.”

They rejoined their soldiers, then began to retreat down the hallway.

Aesudan stopped in the doorway to the king’s chambers. “I have outgrown you, Elhokar. I have taken the gemstone into me, and have harnessed Yelig-nar’s power.” Something started to twist around her, a black smoke, blown as if from an unseen wind.

“Double time,” Kaladin said to his men, drawing in Stormlight. He could feel it coming; he’d sensed where this would go the moment they’d started up the steps.

It was almost a relief when, at last, Aesudan shouted for her soldiers to attack.

* * *

Give it all to me, the voices whispered in Shallan’s mind. Give me your passion, your hunger, your longing, your loss. Surrender it. You are what you feel.

Shallan swam in it, lost, like in the depths of the ocean. The voices beset her from all sides. When one whispered that she was pain, Shallan became a weeping girl, singing as she twisted a chain tight around a thick neck. When another whispered that she was hunger, she became an urchin on the street, wearing rags for clothing.

Passion. Fear. Enthusiasm. Boredom. Hatred. Lust.

She became a new person with every heartbeat. The voices seemed thrilled by this. They assaulted her, growing to a frenzy. Shallan was a thousand people in a moment.

But which one was her?

All of them. A new voice. Wit’s?

“Wit!” she screamed, surrounded by snapping eels in a dark place. “Wit! Please.”

You’re all of them, Shallan. Why must you be only one emotion? One set of sensations? One role? One life?

“They rule me, Wit. Veil and Radiant and all the others. They’re consuming me.”

Then be ruled as a king is ruled by his subjects. Make Shallan so strong, the others must bow.

“I don’t know if I can!”

The darkness thrummed and surged.

And then … withdrew?

Shallan didn’t feel as if she’d changed anything, but still the darkness retreated. She found herself kneeling on the cold stones outside the control building. The enormous heart became sludge, then melted away, almost seeming to crawl, sending out runners of dark liquid before itself.

“You did it!” Adolin said.

I did?

“Secure that building,” Azure commanded her soldiers. Drehy and Skar glowed nearby, looking grim, fresh blood on their clothing. They’d been fighting.

Shallan stood up on shaky feet. The small, circular structure in front of her seemed insignificant compared to the other monastery buildings, but it was the key to everything.

“This is going to be tricky, Azure,” Adolin said. “We’re going to have to fight back down into the city, push the enemy out. Storms, I hope my father has our armies ready.”

Shallan blinked, dazed. She couldn’t help feeling she’d failed. That she hadn’t done anything.

“The first transfer will be only the control building,” Adolin said. “After that, she’ll swap the entire platform—buildings and all. We’ll want to move our army back into the palace before that happens.” Adolin turned, surveying the path back. “What is taking the king so long?”

Shallan stepped into the control building. It looked much as the one she’d discovered at the Shattered Plains—though better maintained, and its tile mosaics on the floor were of fanciful creatures. An enormous beast with claws, and fur like a mink. Something that looked like a giant fish. On the walls, lanterns shone with gemstones—and between them hung full-length mirrors.

Shallan walked toward the keyhole control device, summoning Pattern as a Blade. She studied him, then looked up at herself in one of the mirrors hanging on the wall.

Someone else stood in the mirror. A woman with black hair that fell to her waist. She wore archaic clothing, a sleeveless, flowing gown that was more of a tunic, with a simple belted waist. Shallan touched her face. Why had she put this illusion on?

The reflection didn’t mimic her motions, but pressed forward, raising hands against the glass. The reflected room faded and the figure distorted, and became a jet-black shadow with white holes for eyes.

Radiant, the thing said, mouthing the words. My name is Sja-anat. And I am not your enemy.

Kaladin’s men charged down the steps in their escape, though the back ranks bunched up in the hallway around the stairwell. Behind, the Queen’s Guard set up and lowered crossbows. Sylspear held high, Kaladin stepped between the two groups and pooled Stormlight into the ground, drawing the bolts downward. He was unpracticed with this power, and unfortunately, some of the bolts still slammed into shields, even heads.

Kaladin growled, then drew in a deep breath of Stormlight, bursting alight—the glow of his skin shining on the walls and ceiling of the palace hallway. The queen’s soldiers shied back before the light as if it were something physical.

Distantly, he heard the screaming spren react to what he’d done. He Lashed himself in precisely the right way to rise a few feet off the ground, then float there. The queen’s soldiers blinked against the light, as if it were somehow too strong for their eyes. At last, the captain of the rearguard called the final withdrawal, and the rest of Kaladin’s men rushed down the stairs. Only Noro’s squad lingered.

Some of the queen’s soldiers began to test forward at him, so he dropped to the floor and started down the steps at a run. Beard and the rest of the squad joined him, followed by the queen’s soldiers, unnaturally silent.

Unfortunately, Kaladin heard something else echoing up the stairwell from down below. The sounds of men clashing, and of familiar singing.

Parshendi songs.

“Rearguard!” Kaladin shouted. “Form up on the steps; orient toward the upper floor!”

His soldiers obeyed, turning and leveling spears and shields at the descending enemy. Kaladin Lashed himself upward and twisted so that he hit the ceiling feet-first. He ducked and ran—passing over the heads of his men in the high stairwell—until he reached the ground floor.

The first ranks of his soldiers clashed with parshman troops in the eastern gallery. But the enemy had penned them into the stairwell, so most of his troops couldn’t get down to the fight.

Kaladin released his Lashing, dropping and twisting to land in a tempest of light before the parshman ranks. Several of his men groaned and cried as they fell, bloodied, to the enemy spears. Kaladin felt his rage flare, and he lowered the Sylspear. It was time to begin the work of death.

Then he saw the face of the parshman in front of him.

It was Sah. Former slave. Cardplayer. Father.

Kaladin’s friend.

Shallan regarded the figure in the mirror. It had spoken. “What are you?”

They call me the Taker of Secrets, the figure said. Or they once did.

“One of the Unmade. Our enemies.”

We were made, then unmade, she agreed. But no, not an enemy! The figure turned humanlike again, though the eyes remained glowing white. It pressed its hands against the glass. Ask my son. Please.

“You’re of him. Odium.”

The figure glanced to the sides, as if frightened. No. I am of me. Now, only of me.

Shallan considered, then looked at the keyhole. By using Pattern in that, she could initiate the Oathgate.

Don’t do it, Sja-anat pled. Listen, Radiant. Listen to my plea. Ashertmarn fled on purpose. It is a trap. I was compelled to touch the spren of this device, so it will not function as you wish.

Kaladin’s will to fight evaporated.

He’d been stoked with energy, ready to enter the battle and protect his men. But …

Sah recognized him and gasped, then grabbed his companion—Khen, one of the others Kaladin knew—and pointed. The parshwoman cursed, and the group of them scrambled away from the steps—leaving dead human soldiers.

In the opening provided, Kaladin’s men pushed down off the steps into the grand hall. They surged around Kaladin as—stunned—he lowered his spear.

The large, pillared hall became a scene of utter chaos. Azure’s soldiers rushed in from the Sunwalk, meeting the parshmen who came up the stairs from the back of the palace—they’d likely broken in through the gardens there. The king held his son, standing amid a group of soldiers in the very center. Kaladin’s men managed to get down off the steps, and behind them rushed the Queen’s Guard.

It all churned into a melee. Battle lines disintegrated, and platoons shattered, men fighting alone or in pairs. It was a battlefield commander’s nightmare. Hundreds of men mixing and screaming and fighting and dying.

Kaladin saw them. All of them. Sah and the parshmen, fighting to keep their freedom. The guardsmen who had been rescued, fighting for their king. Azure’s Wall Guard, terrified as their city fell around them. The Queen’s Guard, convinced they were loyally following orders.

In that moment, Kaladin lost something precious. He’d always been able to trick himself into seeing a battle as us against them. Protect those you love. Kill everyone else. But … but they didn’t deserve death.

None of them did.

He locked up. He froze, something that hadn’t happened to him since his first days in Amaram’s army. The Sylspear vanished in his fingers, puffing to mist. How could he fight? How could he kill people who were just doing the best they could?

“Stop!” he finally bellowed. “Stop it! Stop killing each other!”

Nearby, Sah rammed Beard through with a spear.

“STOP! PLEASE!”

Noro responded by running through Jali—one of the other parshmen Kaladin had known. Ahead, Elhokar’s ring of guards fell, and a member of the Queen’s Guard managed to ram the point of a halberd into the king’s arm. Elhokar gasped, dropping his Shardblade from pained fingers, holding his son close with his other arm.

The Queen’s Guardsman pulled back, eyes widening—as if seeing the king for the first time. One of Azure’s soldiers cut the guardsman down in his moment of confusion.

Kaladin screamed, tears streaming from his eyes. He begged them to just stop, to listen.

They couldn’t hear him. Sah—gentle Sah, who had only wanted to protect his daughter—died by Noro’s sword. Noro, in turn, got his head split by Khen’s axe.

Noro and Sah fell beside Beard, whose dead eyes stared sightlessly—his arm stretched out, glyphward soaking up his blood.

Kaladin slumped to his knees. His Stormlight seemed to frighten off the enemies; everyone stayed away from him. Syl spun around him, begging for him to listen, but he couldn’t hear her.

The king … he thought, numb. Get … get to Elhokar …

Elhokar had fallen to his knees. In one arm he held his terrified son, in the other hand he held … a sheet of paper? A sketch?

Kaladin could almost hear Elhokar stuttering the words.

Life … life before death …

The hair on Kaladin’s neck rose. Elhokar started to glow softly.

Strength … before weakness …

“Do it, Elhokar,” Kaladin whispered.

Journey. Journey before …

A figure emerged from the battle. A tall, lean man—so, so familiar. Gloom seemed to cling to Moash, who wore a brown uniform like the parshmen. For a heartbeat the battle pivoted on him. Wall Guard behind him, broken Palace Guard before.

“Moash, no…” Kaladin whispered. He couldn’t move. Stormlight bled from him, leaving him empty, exhausted.

Lowering his spear, Moash ran Elhokar through the chest.

Kaladin screamed.

Moash pinned the king to the ground, shoving aside the weeping child prince with his foot. He placed his boot against Elhokar’s throat, holding him down, then pulled the spear out and stabbed Elhokar through the eye as well.

He held the weapon in place, carefully waiting until the fledgling glow around the king faded and flickered out. The king’s Shardblade appeared from mist and clanged to the ground beside him.

Elhokar, king of Alethkar, was dead.

Moash pulled the spear free and glanced at the Shardblade. Then he kicked it aside. He looked at Kaladin, then quietly made the Bridge Four salute, wrists tapped together. The spear he held dripped with Elhokar’s blood.

The battle broke. Kaladin’s men had been all but obliterated; the remnants escaped along the Sunwalk. A member of the Queen’s Guard scooped up the young prince and carried him away. Azure’s men limped back before the growing parshman armies.

The queen descended the stairs, wreathed in black smoke, eyes glowing red. She’d transformed, strange crystal formations having pierced her skin like carapace. Her chest was glowing bright with a gemstone, as if it had replaced her heart. It shone through her dress.

Kaladin turned from her and crawled toward the king’s corpse. Nearby, a member of the Queen’s Guard finally took notice of him, seizing him by the arm.

And then … light. Glowing Stormlight flooded the chamber as twin Radiants exploded out from the Sunwalk. Drehy and Skar swept through the enemy, driving them back with sweeping spears and Lashings.

A second later, Adolin grabbed Kaladin under the arms and heaved him backward. “Time to go, bridgeboy.”

85. Grieve Later

Adolin shoved down the emotion of seeing Elhokar’s dead body. It was one of the first battlefield lessons his father had taught him.

Grieve later.

Adolin pulled Kaladin out along the Sunwalk while Skar and Drehy guarded their retreat, encouraging the last of the Wall Guard to run—or limp—to safety.

Kaladin stumbled along. Though he didn’t appear wounded, he stared with a glazed-over look. Those were the eyes of a man who bore the kinds of wounds you couldn’t fix with bandages.

They eventually poured out of the Sunwalk onto the Oathgate platform, where Azure’s soldiers held firm, her surgeons running to help the wounded who had escaped the bloodbath in the eastern gallery. Skar and Drehy dropped down to the platform, guarding the way onto the Sunwalk, to prevent the Queen’s Guard or parshmen from following.

Adolin stumbled to a stop. From this vantage he could see the city.

Stormfather.

Tens of thousands of parshmen flooded in through the broken gates or across the nearby sections of wall. Figures glowing with dark light zipped through the air. Those seemed to be gathering in formations nearby, perhaps for an assault on the Oathgate platform.

Adolin took it all in, and admitted the terrible truth. His city was lost.

“All forces, hold the platform,” he heard himself saying. “But pass the word. I’m going to take us to Urithiru.”

“Sir!” a soldier said. “Civilians are crowding the base of the platform, trying to get up the steps.”

“Let them!” Adolin shouted. “Get as many people up here as you can. Hold against any enemy who tries to reach the platform top, but don’t engage them if they don’t press. We’re abandoning the city. Anyone not on the platform in ten minutes will be left behind!”

Adolin hurried toward the control building. Kaladin followed, dazed. After what he’s been through, Adolin thought, I wouldn’t have expected that anything could faze him. Not even Elhokar’s …

Storms. Grieve later.

Azure stood guard in the doorway to the control building, holding the pack full of gemstones. Hopefully, those would be enough to get everyone to safety.

“Brightness Davar told me to clear everyone else out,” the highmarshal said. “Something’s wrong with the device.”

Adolin cursed under his breath and stepped inside. Shallan knelt on the ground before a mirror, looking at herself. Behind, Kaladin stepped in, then settled down on the floor, placing his back to the wall.

“Shallan,” Adolin said. “We need to go. Now.”

“But—”

“The city has fallen. Transfer the entire platform, not just the control building. We need to get as many people as we can to safety.”

“My men on the wall!” Azure said.

“They’re dead or routed,” Adolin said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“The king—”

“The king is dead. The queen has joined the enemy. I’m ordering our retreat, Azure.” Adolin locked gazes with the woman. “We gain nothing by dying here.”

She drew her lips to a line, but didn’t argue further.

“Adolin,” Shallan whispered, “the heart was a trick. I didn’t chase it off—it left on purpose. I think … I think the Voidbringers intentionally left Kaladin and his men alone after only a brief fight. They let us come here because the Oathgate is trapped.”

“How do you know?” Adolin asked.

Shallan cocked her head. “I’m speaking to her.”

“Her?”

“Sja-anat. The Taker of Secrets. She says that if we engage the device, we’ll be caught in a disaster.”

Adolin took a deep breath.

“Do it anyway,” he said.

* * *

Do it anyway.

Shallan understood the implication. How could they trust an ancient spren of Odium? Perhaps Shallan really had driven the black heart away, and—in a panic to keep the humans from escaping—Sja-anat was now stalling.

Shallan looked away from the pleading figure in the mirror. The others couldn’t see her—she’d confirmed this with Azure already.

“Pattern?” she whispered. “What do you think?”

“Mmmm…” he said quietly. “Lies. So many lies. I don’t know, Shallan. I cannot tell you.”

Kaladin slumped by the wall, staring sightlessly, as if he were dead inside. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him in such a state.

“Get ready.” Shallan stood up, summoning Pattern as a Blade.

Trust is not mine, said the figure in the mirror. You will not give my children a home. Not yet.

Shallan pushed the Blade into the lock. It melded to match Pattern’s shape.

I will show you, Sja-anat said. I will try. My promise is not strong, for I cannot know. But I will try.

“Try what?” Shallan asked.

Try not to kill you.

With those words haunting her, Shallan engaged the Oathgate.

86. That Others May Stand

Dalinar Kholin stood at attention, hands behind his back, one wrist gripping the other. He could see so far from his balcony at Urithiru—but it was endless miles of nothing. Clouds and rock. So much and so little, all at once.

“Dalinar,” Navani said, stepping up and resting her hands on his arm. “Please. At least come inside.”

They thought he was sick. They thought his collapse on the Oathgate platform had been caused by heart troubles, or fatigue. The surgeons had suggested rest. But if he stopped standing up straight, if he let it bow him down, he worried the memories would crush him.

The memories of what he’d done at the Rift.

The crying voices of children, begging for mercy.

He forced his emotions down. “What news,” he said, embarrassed by how his voice trembled.

“None,” Navani said. “Dalinar…”

Word had come from Kholinar via spanreed, one that somehow still worked. An assault on the palace, an attempt to reach the Oathgate.

Outside, the gathered Kholin, Aladar, and Roion armies clogged one of Urithiru’s Oathgate platforms, waiting to be taken to Kholinar to join the battle. But nothing happened. Time seeped away. It had been four hours since the first communication.

Dalinar closed his mouth, eyes ahead, and stared at the expanse. At attention, like a soldier. That was how he would wait. Even though he’d never really been a soldier. He’d commanded men, ordered recruits to stand in line, inspected ranks. But he himself … he’d skipped all of that. He’d waged war in a bloodthirsty riot, not a careful formation.

Navani sighed, patting him on the arm, then returned to their rooms to sit with Taravangian and a small collection of scribes and highprinces. Awaiting news from Kholinar.

Dalinar stood in the breeze, wishing he could empty his mind, rid himself of memories. Go back to being able to pretend he was a good man. Problem was, he’d given in to a kind of fancy, one everyone told about him. They said the Blackthorn had been a terror on the battlefield, but still honest. Dalinar Kholin, he would fight you fair, they said.

Evi’s cries, and the tears of murdered children, spoke the truth. Oh … oh, Almighty above. How could he live with this pain? So fresh, restored anew? But why pray? There was no Almighty watching. If there had been—and if he’d had a shred of justice to him—Honor would have long ago purged this world of the fraud that was Dalinar Kholin.

And I had the gall to condemn Amaram for killing one squad of men to gain a Shardblade. Dalinar had burned an entire city for less. Thousands upon thousands of people.

“Why did you bond me?” Dalinar whispered to the Stormfather. “Shouldn’t you have picked a man who was just?”

Just? Justice is what you brought to those people.

“That was not justice. That was a massacre.”

The Stormfather rumbled. I have burned and broken cities myself. I can see … yes, I see a difference now. I see pain now. I did not see it before the bond.

Would Dalinar lose his bond now, in exchange for making the Stormfather increasingly aware of human morality? Why had these cursed memories returned? Couldn’t he have continued for a little longer without them? Long enough to forge the coalition, to prepare the defense of humankind?

That was the coward’s route. Wishing for ignorance. The coward’s route he’d obviously taken—though he could not yet remember his visit to the Nightwatcher, he knew what he’d asked for. Relief from this awful burden. The ability to lie, to pretend he had not done such horrible things.

He turned away and walked back into his rooms. He didn’t know how he’d face this—bear this burden—but today, he needed to focus on the salvation of Kholinar. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make battle plans until he knew more about the city’s situation.

He entered the common room, where the core of his government had gathered. Navani and the others sat on some couches around the spanreed, waiting. They’d laid out battle maps of Kholinar, talked over strategies, but then … hours had passed with no news.

It felt so frustrating to just sit here, ignorant. And it left Dalinar with too much time to think. To remember.

Instead of sitting with the others, Taravangian had taken his normal place: a seat before the warming fabrial in the corner. Legs aching and back stiff, Dalinar walked over and finally let himself sit, groaning softly as he took the seat beside Taravangian.

Before them, a bright red ruby glowed with heat, replacing a fire with something safer but far more lifeless.

“I’m sorry, Dalinar,” Taravangian finally said. “I’m sure news will come soon.”

Dalinar nodded. “Thank you for what you did when the Azish came to tour the tower.”

The Azish had arrived yesterday for an initial tour, but Dalinar had been recovering from the sudden return of his memories. Well … truth was, he was still recovering. He’d welcomed them, then retired, as Taravangian had offered to lead the tour. Navani said the Azish dignitaries had all been charmed by the elderly king, and planned to return soon for a more in-depth meeting about the possibility of a coalition.

Dalinar leaned forward, staring at the heating fabrial. Behind, Aladar and General Khal conversed—for probably the hundredth time—on how to recover the Kholinar walls, if they were lost by the time the Oathgate started working.

“Have you ever come to the sudden realization,” Dalinar said softly, “that you’re not the man everyone thinks you are?”

“Yes,” Taravangian whispered. “More daunting, however, are similar moments: when I realize I’m not the man I think of myself as being.”

Stormlight swirled in the ruby. Churning. Trapped. Imprisoned.

“We spoke once,” Dalinar said, “of a leader forced to either hang an innocent man or free three murderers.”

“I remember.”

“How does one live after making a decision like that? Particularly if you eventually discover you made the wrong choice?”

“This is the sacrifice, isn’t it?” Taravangian said softly. “Someone must bear the responsibility. Someone must be dragged down by it, ruined by it. Someone must stain their soul so others may live.”

“But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.”

“Does it matter? One wrongly imprisoned man? One murder in an alley that a proper policing force could have stopped? The burden for the blood of those wronged must rest somewhere. I am the sacrifice. We, Dalinar Kholin, are the sacrifices. Society offers us up to trudge through dirty water so others may be clean.” He closed his eyes. “Someone has to fall, that others may stand.”

The words were similar to things Dalinar had said, and thought, for years. Yet Taravangian’s version was somehow twisted, lacking hope or life.

Dalinar leaned forward, stiff, feeling old. The two didn’t speak for a long period until the others started to stir. Dalinar stood, anxious.

The spanreed was writing. Navani gasped, safehand to her lips. Teshav turned pale, and May Aladar sat back in her seat, looking sick.

The spanreed cut off abruptly and dropped to the page, rolling as it landed.

“What?” Dalinar demanded. “What does it say?”

Navani looked to him, then glanced away. Dalinar shared a look with General Khal, then Aladar.

Dread settled on Dalinar like a cloak. Blood of my fathers. “What does it say?” he pled.

“The … the capital has fallen, Dalinar,” Navani whispered. “The ardent reports that Voidbringer forces have seized the palace. He … he cut off after only a few sentences. It looks like they found him, and…”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“The team you sent,” Teshav continued, “has apparently failed, Brightlord.” She swallowed. “The remnants of the Wall Guard have been captured and imprisoned. The city has fallen. There is no word on the king, Prince Adolin, or the Radiants. Brightlord … the message cuts off there.”

Dalinar sank back down into his chair.

“Almighty above,” Taravangian whispered, grey eyes reflecting the glow of the heating fabrial. “I am so, so sorry, Dalinar.”

87. This Place

The Oathgate’s control building shook like it had been hit by a boulder. Adolin stumbled, then fell to his knees.

The shaking was followed by a distinct ripping sound, and a blinding flash of light.

His stomach lurched.

He fell through the air.

Shallan screamed somewhere nearby.

Adolin struck a hard surface, and the impact was so jarring that he rolled to the side. That caused him to tumble off the edge of a white stone platform.

He fell into something that gave way beneath him. Water? No, it didn’t feel right. He twisted in it—not a liquid, but beads. Thousands upon thousands of glass beads, each smaller than a Stormlight sphere.

Adolin thrashed, panicked as he sank. He was dying! He was going to die and suffocate in this sea of endless beads. He—

Someone caught his hand. Azure pulled him up and helped him back onto the platform, beads rolling from his clothing. He coughed, feeling that he had been drowning, though he’d gotten only a few beads in his mouth.

Stormfather! He groaned, looking around. The sky overhead was wrong. Pitch-black, it was streaked with strange clouds that seemed to stretch forever into the distance—like roads in the sky. They led toward a small, distant sun.

The ocean of beads extended in every direction, and tiny lights hovered above them—thousands upon thousands, like candle flames. Shallan stepped over, kneeling beside him. Nearby, Kaladin was standing up, shaking himself. This circular stone platform was like an island in the ocean of beads, roughly where the control building had been.

Hovering in the air were two enormous spren—they looked like stretched-out versions of people, and stood some thirty feet tall, like sentinels. One was pitch-black in coloring, the other red. He thought them statues at first, but their clothing rippled in the air, and they shifted, one turning eyes down to look at him.

“Oh, this is bad,” someone said nearby. “So very, very bad.”

Adolin looked and found the speaker to be a creature in a stiff black costume, with a robe that seemed—somehow—to be made of stone. In place of its head was a shifting, changing ball of lines, angles, and impossible dimensions.

Adolin jumped to his feet, scrambling back. He almost collided with a young woman with blue-white skin, pale as snow, wearing a filmy dress that rippled in the wind. Another spren stood beside her, with ashen brown features that seemed to be made of tight cords, the thickness of hair. She wore ragged clothing, and her eyes had been scratched out, like a canvas that someone had taken a knife to.

Adolin looked around, counting them. Nobody else was here on the landing. Those two enormous spren in the sky, and the three smaller ones on the platform. Adolin, Shallan, Kaladin, and Azure.

It seemed the Oathgate had only taken those who had been inside the control building. But where had it taken them?

Azure looked up at the sky. “Damnation,” she said softly. “I hate this place.”

THE END OF

Part Three