Cover

Wind and Truth

For Adam Horne,

Who is a champion of books, and deserves his own Shardblade.

WIND AND TRUTH

BRANDON SANDERSON

WIND
AND
TRUTH

Wind and Truth

Book Five of
THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE

Wind and Truth

Illustrations

NOTE: Many illustrations, titles included, contain spoilers for material that comes before them in the book. Look ahead at your own risk.

Map of Roshar

Shallan’s Sketchbook: Starspren

Shallan’s Sketchbook: Musicspren

Shallan’s Sketchbook: Urithiru in Shadesmar

Shallan’s Sketchbook: Shardplate

Navani’s Notebook: Rewarding Spren

Folio: Takamas

A Study of the Oathgate Dome of Azimir

Map of Shin Monasteries

Shash: Heavenly and Flowing Ones

Shash: Regals

Coalition Stronghold at Narak

Shash: Focused Ones

Shash: Altered and Deepest Ones

Folio: Ko-takamas

Page from Mythica: Ba-Ado-Mishram

Plan of the City of Azimir

Thunderclasts

Shash: Magnified Ones

Shash: Husked and Devastating Ones

Navani’s Notebook: Honorblades

The History of Man

Wind and Truth

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Welcome to Wind and Truth, Book Five of the Stormlight Archive. This is the midpoint in the series, and the ending of the first major arc. As such, I have wrestled with this book more than most, giving it a great portion of my thoughts, passion, and effort over the last four years. This is, to date, the longest book I’ve ever written—and this is among the longest amounts of time I’ve ever spent on a book. (Probably the longest, if you don’t count projects I set down and came back to years later.) I hope you’ll find the result worth the effort!

Below is a list of all the people who worked on the novel behind the scenes in various capacities. It’s getting more and more like movie credits, with how many people help. I still write every word, and am the sole author of the books, but wow … Dragonsteel as a company has become something spectacular. While for most books we keep a pretty normal work schedule, Stormlight novels are generally an “all hands on deck” situation—with some pulling extra hours to meet deadlines, and others spending a great deal of their working days focused only on helping get the book edited, publicized, and distributed. So if you ever get a chance to meet them, give them a handshake and a thank-you.

Then please, sit back and enjoy the show. A highstorm is brewing.

Artists who worked on this book: Michael Whelan, Donato Giancola, Miranda Meeks, Dan dos Santos, Audrey Hotte, Kelley King, Petar Penev, Howard Lyon, Greg Call, Isaac Stewart, Ben McSweeney, Anna Earley, Hayley Lazo.

At Tor Books: Devi Pillai, Stephanie Stein, Tessa Villanueva, Sanaa Ali-Virani, Rafal Gibek, Peter Lutjen, Alexis Saarela, Lucille Rettino, Emily Mlynek.

At Gollancz: Gillian Redfearn, Brendan Durkin, Emad Akhtar, Cait Davies, Javerya Iqbal.

Copyediting and proofreading: Terry McGarry, Christina MacDonald, Hayley Jozwiak.

Audiobook narrators: Michael Kramer and Kate Reading. At Macmillan Audio: Steve Wagner.

At JABberwocky Literary Agency: Joshua Bilmes, Susan Velasquez, Christina Zobel, Valentina Sainato, Brady McReynolds. At Zeno Literary Agency: John Berlyne.

At Dragonsteel: COO Emily Sanderson. Operations & HR: VP Matt “Why do you write my name like this, Brandon?” Hatch, Operations Director Jane Horne, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Jerrod Walker, Braydonn Moore, Makena Saluone, Christian Fairbanks, Becky Wilson, Ethan Skarstedt, Finance Director Emma Tan-Stoker, Matt Hampton.

Creative Development: VP Isaac SteƜart, Art Director Shawn Boyles, Art Director Ben McSweeney, Jennifer Neal, Rachael Lynn Buchanan, Anna Earley, Hayley Lazo, Priscilla Spencer.

Editorial: VP the Inviting Peter Ahlstrom, Editorial Director Kristy S. Gilbert, Continuity Director Karen Ahlstrom, Jennie Stevens, Betsey Ahlstrom, Emily Shaw-Higham.

Merchandise, Events, and Snazzy Sweaters: VP Kara Stewart, Merchandise Director Christi Jacobsen, Events & Support Director Kellyn Neumann, Lex Willhite, Richard Rubert, Dallin Holden, Ally Reep, Mem Grange, Brett Moore, Katy Ives, Joy Allen, Daniel Phipps, Michael Bateman, Alex Lyon, Jacob Chrisman, Camilla Waite, Quinton Martin, Hollie Rubert, Gwen Hickman, Isabel Chrisman, Amanda Butterfield, Logan Reep, Pablo Mooney.

Publicity & Marketing: VP Adam Horne, aka He for Whom the Book Is Dedicated (huzzah!), Marketing Director Jeremy Palmer, Octavia Escamilla-Spiker, Taylor Hatch, Tayan Hatch, Donald George Mustard III.

Narrative: VP Dan Wells—our lone member of the Narrative Department, except for his imaginary friend Bob the Banjo Player.

My writing group, Here There Be Dragons: Kaylynn ZoBell, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Eric James Stone, Darci Stone, Alan Layton, How’s That Ben? (Olsen), Ethan Skarstedt, Karen Ahlstrom, Peter Ahlstrom, Emily Sanderson.

Dissociative identity disorder expert: Britt Martin. Military experts: Carl Fisk, John Fahey. Amputee and prosthetics expert: Matthew Fox.

Arcanists: Eric Lake, Evgeni “Argent” Kirilov, Joshua “Jofwu” Harkey, David Behrens, Ian McNatt, Ben Marrow.

Beta readers: Aaron Ford, Alexis Horizon, Alice Arneson, Alyx Hoge, Amit Shteinheart, Aubree Pham, Austin Hussey, Bao Pham, Becca Reppert, Ben Marrow, Billy Todd, Bob Kluttz, Brandon Cole, Brian T. Hill, Britton Roney, Chana Oshira Block, Chris Kluwe, Chris McGrath, Christina Goodman, Christopher “chaplainchris” Cottingham, Craig Hanks, Darci Cole, David Behrens, Deana Covel Whitney, Donita Orders, Drew McCaffrey, Eliyahu Berelowitz Levin, Eric Lake, Erika Kuta Marler, Evgeni “Argent” Kirilov, Gary Singer, Giulia Costantini, Glen Vogelaar, Ian McNatt, Jayden King, Jennifer Pugh, Jessica Ashcraft, Jessie Lake, João Menezes Morais, Joe Skeedlebop Deardeuff, Joelle Ruth Phillips, Jory “Jor the Bouncer” Phillips, Joshua Harkey, Kadie “Ene” Nytch, Kalyani Poluri, Kathleen Barlow, Dr. Kathleen Holland, Kendra Wilson, Krystl Allred, Kyle “Dorksider” Wilson, Laura Heinis, Lauren McCaffrey, Lauren “Biz’s Mom” Strach, Liliana Klein, Linnea Lindstrom, Lyndsey Luther, Marnie Peterson, Matt Wiens, Max Salzman, Megan Kanne, Mi’chelle Walker, Paige Phillips, Paige Vest, Poonam Desai, Rachel Rada, Rahkeem Ball, Rahul Pantula, Richard Fife, Rob West, Rosemary Williams, Ross Newberry, Ryan Scott, Sam Baskin, Sarah Herr, Sarah Kane, Scott “Spydr” Webb, Sean VanBlack, Shannon Nelson, Shivam Bhatt, Siena “Lotus” Buchanan, Suzanne Musin, Taylor Cole, Ted Herman, Tim Challener, TJ McGrath, Trae Cooper, Zenef Mark Lindberg.

Gamma readers: Many of the beta readers plus Ari Kufer, Brian Magnant, Collin Abeln, Dale Wiens, Ellie Frato-Sweeney, Lingting “Botanica” Xu, Nisarg “Strifelover” Shah, Philip Vorwaller, Ram Shoham, Spencer White, Valencia Kumley, William Juan.

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO

Gavilar Kholin was on the verge of immortality.

He merely had to find the right Words.

He walked a circle around the nine Honorblades, driven point-first into the stone ground. The air stank of burned flesh; he’d attended enough funeral pyres to know that scent intimately, though these bodies hadn’t been burned after the fighting but during it.

“They call it Aharietiam,” he said, trailing around the Blades, letting his hand linger on each one. When he became a Herald, would his Blade become like these, imbued with power and lore? “The end of the world. Was it a lie?”

Many who name it such believed what they said, the Stormfather replied.

“And the owners of these?” he said, gesturing to the Blades. “What did the Heralds believe?”

If they had been entirely truthful, the Stormfather said, then I would not be seeking a new champion.

Gavilar nodded. “I swear to serve Honor and Roshar as its Herald. Better than these did.”

These words are not accepted, the Stormfather said. You will never find them at random, Gavilar.

He would try nonetheless. In becoming the most powerful man in the world, Gavilar had often accomplished what others thought impossible. He rounded the ring of Blades again, alone with them in the shadow of monolithic stones. After dozens of visits to this vision, he could name each and every Blade by its associated Herald. The Stormfather, however, continued to be reticent to share information.

No matter. He would have his prize. He ripped Jezrien’s long, curved Blade from the stone and swung it, cutting the air. “Nohadon met and grew to know the Heralds.”

Yes, the Stormfather admitted.

“They are in there, aren’t they?” he said. “The correct Words are somewhere in The Way of Kings?”

Yes.

Gavilar had the entire book memorized—he’d taught himself to read years ago so he could search for secrets without revealing them to the women in his life. He tossed the Herald’s Blade aside, letting it clang against the stone—which made the Stormfather hiss.

Gavilar mentally chided himself. This was just a vision, and these fake Blades were nothing to him, but he needed the Stormfather to think him pious and worthy at least for now. He took up Chana’s Blade. He was fond of this one, as its ornamentation bifurcated the blade with a slit down the center. That long gap would be highly impractical for a normal sword. Here it was a symbol that this Blade was something incredible.

“Chanaranach was a soldier,” he said, “and this is a soldier’s Blade. Solid and straight, but with that little impossibility missing from the center.” He held the Blade in front of him, examining its edge. “I feel I know them each so well. They are my colleagues, yet I could not pick them out of a crowd.”

Your colleagues? Do not get ahead of yourself, Gavilar. Find the Words.

Those storming Words. The most important ones Gavilar would ever say. With them, he would become the Stormfather’s champion—and, he had deduced, something more. Gavilar suspected he would be accepted into the Oathpact and ascend beyond mortality. He had not asked which Herald he would replace; it felt crass, and he did not want to appear crass before the Stormfather. He suspected, though, that he would replace Talenelat, the one who had not left his Blade.

Gavilar stabbed the sword back into the stone. “Let us return.”

The vision ended immediately, and he was in the palace’s second-floor study. Bookshelves, a quiet desk for reading, tapestries and carpets to dampen voices. Gavilar wore finery for the upcoming feast: regal robes more archaic than fashionable. Like his beard, the clothing stood out among the Alethi lighteyes. He wanted them to think of him as something ancient, beyond their petty games.

This room was technically Navani’s, but it was his palace. People rarely looked for him here, and he needed a reprieve from little people with little problems. As he had time before his meetings, Gavilar selected a small book that listed the latest surveys of the region around the Shattered Plains. He was increasingly certain that place held an ancient unlocked Oathgate. Through it, Gavilar could find the mythical Urithiru, and there, ancient records.

He would find the right Words. He was close. So tantalizingly close to what all men secretly desired, but only ten had ever achieved. Eternal life, and a legacy that spanned millennia—because you could live to shape it.

It is not so grand as you think, the spren said. Which gave Gavilar pause. The Stormfather couldn’t read his mind, could it? No. No, he’d tested that. It didn’t know his deepest thoughts, his deepest plans. For if it did know his heart, it wouldn’t be working with him.

“What isn’t?” Gavilar asked, slipping the book back.

Immortality, the Stormfather said. It wears on men and women, weathering souls and minds. The Heralds are insane—afflicted with unnatural ailments unique to their ancient natures.

“How long did it take?” Gavilar asked. “For the symptoms to appear?”

Difficult to say. A thousand years, perhaps two.

“Then I will have that long to find a solution,” Gavilar said. “A much more reasonable timeline than the mere century—with luck—afforded a mortal. Wouldn’t you say?”

I have not promised you this boon. You guess it is what I offer, but I seek only a champion. Still, tell me, would you accept the cost of becoming a Herald? Everyone you know would be dust by the time you returned.

And here, the lie. “A king’s duty is to his people,” he said. “By becoming a Herald, I can safeguard Alethkar in a way that no previous monarch ever has. I can endure personal pain to accomplish this. ‘If I should die,’” Gavilar added, quoting The Way of Kings, “‘then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.’”

These words are not accepted, the spren said. Guessing will not bring you to the Words, Gavilar.

Yes, well, the Words were in that volume somewhere. Sheltered among the self-righteous moralizing like a whitespine in the brambles. Gavilar Kholin was not a man accustomed to losing. People got what they expected. And he expected not just victory, but divinity.

The guard knocked softly. Was it time already? Gavilar called for Tearim to come in, and he did. The guard was wearing Gavilar’s own Plate tonight.

“Sire,” Tearim said, “your brother is here.”

“What? Not Restares? How did Dalinar find me?”

“Spotted us standing watch, I suspect, Your Majesty.”

Bother. “Let him in.”

The guard withdrew. A second later Dalinar burst in, graceful as a three-legged chull. He slammed the door and bellowed, “Gavilar! I want to go talk to the Parshendi.”

Gavilar took a long, deep breath. “Brother, this is a very delicate situation, and we don’t want to offend them.”

“I won’t offend them,” Dalinar grumbled. He wore his takama, the robe of the old-fashioned warrior’s garb open to show his powerful chest—with some grey hairs. He pushed past Gavilar and threw himself into the seat by the desk.

That poor chair.

“Why do you even care about them, Dalinar?” Gavilar said, right hand to his forehead.

“Why do you?” Dalinar demanded. “This treaty, this sudden interest in their lands. What are you planning? Tell me.”

Dear, blunt Dalinar. As subtle as a jug of Horneater white. And equally smart.

“Tell me straight,” Dalinar continued. “Are you planning to conquer them?”

“Why would I be signing a treaty if that were my intent?”

“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “I just … I don’t want to see anything happen to them. I like them.”

“They’re parshmen.”

“I like parshmen.”

“You’ve never noticed a parshman unless he was too slow to bring your drink.”

“There’s something about these ones,” Dalinar said. “I feel a … a kinship.”

“That’s foolish.” Gavilar walked to the desk and leaned down beside his brother. “Dalinar, what’s happening to you? Where is the Blackthorn?”

“Maybe he’s tired,” Dalinar said. “Or blinded. By the soot and ashes of the dead, constantly in his face …”

Again Dalinar whined about the Rift? What an enormous hassle. Restares would be here soon, and then … there was Thaidakar. So many knives to keep balanced perfectly on their tips, lest they slide and cut Gavilar. He couldn’t deal with Dalinar having a crisis of conscience right now.

“Brother,” Gavilar said, “what would Evi say if she saw you like this?”

It was a carefully sharpened spear, slipped expertly into Dalinar’s gut. The man’s fingers gripped the table, and he recoiled at her name.

“She would want you to stand as a warrior,” Gavilar said softly. “And protect Alethkar.”

“I …” Dalinar whispered. “She …”

Gavilar offered a hand and heaved his brother to his feet, then led him to the door. “Stand up straight.”

Dalinar nodded, hand on the doorknob.

“Oh,” Gavilar said. “And Brother? Follow the Codes tonight. There is something strange upon the winds.”

The Codes said not to drink when battle might be imminent. Just a nudge to remind Dalinar that it was a feast, and that there was plenty of wine on hand. Though Dalinar still thought no one knew he’d killed Evi, Gavilar had found the truth, which let him use these subtle manipulations.

Dalinar was out the door a moment later, his lumbering, pliable brain likely focused on two things. First, what he’d done to Evi. Second, how to find something strong enough to make him forget about the first.

When Dalinar was off down the hallway, Gavilar waved Tearim close. The guard was one of the Sons of Honor, a group that was yet another knife Gavilar kept balanced, for they could never know he had outgrown their plans.

“Follow my brother,” Gavilar said. “Subtly ensure that he gets something to drink; maybe lead him to my wife’s secret stores.”

“You had me do that a few months ago, sire,” Tearim whispered back. “There’s not much left, I’m afraid. He likes to share with his soldiers.”

“Well, find him something,” Gavilar replied. “I can let Restares and the others in when they arrive. Go.”

The soldier bowed and followed Dalinar, Shardplate thumping. Gavilar shut the door firmly. When the Stormfather’s voice pushed into his mind, he was not surprised.

He has potential you do not see, that one.

“Dalinar? Of course he does. If I can keep him pointed the right direction, he will burn down entire nations.” Gavilar simply had to ply him with alcohol the rest of the time, so that he didn’t burn down this nation.

He could be more than you think.

“Dalinar is a big, dumb, blunt instrument you apply to problems until they break,” Gavilar said, then shivered, remembering seeing his brother approach across a battlefield. Soaked in blood. Eyes appearing to glow red within his helm, hungry for the life Gavilar lived …

That ghost haunted him. Fortunately, both Dalinar’s pain and his addiction made him easy enough to control.

Gavilar was soon interrupted by another knock. He answered the door and found nothing outside, until the Stormfather hissed a warning in his mind and he felt a sudden chill.

When he turned around, old Thaidakar was there. The Lord of Scars himself, a figure in an enveloping hooded cloak, tattered at the bottom. Storms.

“I was made promises,” Thaidakar said, hood shadowing his face. “I’ve given you information, Gavilar, of the most valuable nature. In payment I requested a single man. When will you deliver Restares to me?”

“Soon,” Gavilar said. “I am gaining his confidence first.”

“It seems to me,” Thaidakar said, “that you’re less interested in our bargain, and more interested in your own motives. It seems to me that I directed you toward something valuable you’ve decided to keep. It seems to me that you play games.”

“It seems to me,” Gavilar said, stepping closer to the cloaked figure, “that you’re not in a position to make demands. You need me. So why don’t we just … keep playing.”

Thaidakar remained still for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he reached up with gloved hands and took down his hood. Gavilar froze—for despite their several interactions, he’d never before seen the man’s face.

Thaidakar was made entirely of softly glowing white-blue light. He was younger than Gavilar had imagined—in his middle years, not the wizened elder he’d seemed. He had a large spike, also blue, through one eye. The point jutted out the back of his skull. Was he some kind of spren?

“Gavilar,” Thaidakar said, “take care. You’re not immortal yet, but you’ve begun to play with forces that rip mortals apart by their very axi.”

“Do you know what they are?” Gavilar demanded, hungry. “The most important Words I’ll ever speak?”

“No,” Thaidakar said. “But listen: none of this is what you think it is. Deliver Restares to my agents, and I will help you recover the ancient powers.”

“I’ve grown beyond that,” Gavilar said.

“You can’t ‘grow beyond’ the tide, Gavilar,” Thaidakar replied. “You swim with it or get swept away. Our plans are already in motion. Though to be honest, I don’t know that we did much. That tide was coming regardless.”

Gavilar grunted. “Well, I intend to—”

He was cut off as Thaidakar transformed. His face melted into a simple floating sphere with some kind of arcane rune at the center. The cloak, body, and gloves vanished into wisps of smoke that evaporated away.

Gavilar stared. That … that looked a lot like what he’d read of the powers of Lightweavers. Knights Radiant. Was Thaidakar—?

“I know you’re meeting Restares today,” the sphere said, vibrating—it had no mouth. “Prepare him, then deliver him to my agents for questioning. Or else. That is my ultimatum, Gavilar. You would not like to be my enemy.”

The sphere of light shrank and turned nearly transparent as it moved to the door, then bobbed down and vanished through the crack underneath.

“What was that?” Gavilar demanded of the Stormfather, unnerved.

Something dangerous, the spren replied in his mind.

“Radiant?”

No. Similar, but no.

Gavilar found himself trembling. Which was stupid. He was a storming king, soon to be a demigod. He had a destiny; he would not be unsettled by cheap tricks and vague threats. Still, he rested his hand against the desk and breathed deeply, his fingers disturbing scattered notes and diagrams from his wife’s latest mechanical obsession. Not for the first time he wondered if Navani could crack this problem. He missed the way they’d once schemed. How long had it been since they’d all laughed together? He, Ialai, Navani, and Torol?

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the kind of secret you shared. Ialai or Sadeas would seize the prize from him if they could—and Gavilar wouldn’t blame them. Navani though … would she try to take immortality for herself? Would she even see its value? She was so clever, so crafty in some ways. Yet when he spoke of his goals for a greater legacy, she got lost in the details. Refusing to think of the mountain because she worried about the placement of the foothills.

He regretted the distance between them. That coldness growing over—well, grown over—their relationship. Thinking of her sent a stab of pain into his heart. He should …

Everyone you know will be dust by the time you return …

Perhaps this way was best.

He had plans to mitigate the length of his absence from this world, but they might take several tries to perfect. So … fewer attachments seemed better. To allow for a cleaner cut. Like one made with a Shardblade.

He bent his mind to his plans, and was well prepared by the time Restares arrived. The balding man didn’t knock. He peeked in, nervously checking each corner before he slipped through the door. He was followed by a shadow: a tall, imperious Makabaki man with a birthmark on one cheek. Gavilar had instructed the servants to treat them as ambassadors, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to speak with this second man, whom he didn’t know.

The newcomer walked with a certain … firmness. Rigidity. He wasn’t a man who gave way. Not to wind, not to storm, and most certainly not to other people.

“Gavilar Kholin,” the man said, offering neither a hand nor a bow. They locked stares. Impressive. Gavilar had expected … well, someone more like Restares.

“Have a drink,” Gavilar said, gesturing toward the bar.

“No,” the man said. Without a thank-you or compliment. Interesting. Intriguing.

Restares scuttled over like a child offered sweets. Even now—after joining this newest incarnation of the Sons of Honor—Gavilar found Restares … odd. The short, balding man sniffed at each of the wines. He had never trusted a drink in Gavilar’s presence, but always tested them anyway. As if he wanted to find poison, to prove his paranoia was justified.

“Sorry,” Restares said, wringing his hands as he hovered over the drinks. “Sorry. Not … not thirsty today, Gavilar. Sorry.”

Gavilar was close to tossing him aside and seizing control of the Sons of Honor. Except some of the others, like Amaram, respected him. Plus … why was Thaidakar so interested in Restares? Surely he couldn’t actually be someone important. Perhaps his tall friend was the true power. Could Gavilar have been kept in the dark for two years about something that vital?

“I’m glad you were willing to meet,” Restares said. “Yes, um. Because, um. So … Announcement. I have an announcement.”

Gavilar frowned. “What is this?”

“I hear,” Restares said, “that you’re looking to, um, restore the Voidbringers?”

“You founded the Sons of Honor, Restares,” Gavilar said, “to recover the ancient oaths and restore the Knights Radiant. Well, they vanished when the Voidbringers did. So if we bring back the Voidbringers, the powers should return.”

More importantly, he thought, the Heralds will return from the land of the dead to lead us again.

Letting me usurp the position of one of them.

“No, no, no,” Restares said, uncharacteristically firm. “I wanted the honor of men to return! I wanted us to explore what made those Radiants so grand. Before things went wrong.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Before … I made them … go wrong …”

Restares wouldn’t meet Gavilar’s eyes. “We … we should stop trying to restore the powers,” Restares said, his voice wilting, and glanced to his stern friend—as if for support. “We can’t … afford another Return …”

“Restares,” Gavilar said, advancing on the little man. “What is wrong with you? You’re talking about betraying everything we believe?” Or at least pretend to believe. Gavilar subtly placed himself so he loomed over Restares. “Have you heard of a man named Thaidakar?”

Restares looked up, his eyes widening.

“He wants to find you,” Gavilar said. “I have protected you thus far. What is it he wants from you, Restares?”

“Secrets,” Restares whispered. “The man … can’t abide … anyone having secrets.”

“What secrets?” Gavilar said firmly, making Restares cringe. “I’ve put up with your lies long enough. What is going on? What does Thaidakar want?”

“I know where she is hidden,” Restares whispered. “Where her soul is. Ba-Ado-Mishram. Granter of Forms. The one who could rival Him. The one … we betrayed.”

Ba-Ado-Mishram? Why would Thaidakar care about an Unmade? It seemed such an oddly shaped piece of the puzzle. Gavilar opened his mouth to speak, but a hand squeezed his shoulder, fingers like a vise. Gavilar turned to see Restares’s Makabaki friend standing behind him.

“What have you done?” the man asked, his voice icy. “Gavilar Kholin. What actions have you taken to achieve this goal of yours, the one that my friend mistakenly set you upon?”

“You have no idea,” Gavilar said, meeting the stranger’s eyes until the man finally released his grip.

Gavilar took a pouch from his pocket, then casually spilled a selection of spheres and gemstones onto the table. “I’m close. Restares, you must not lose your nerve now!”

The stranger stared, his lips parting. He reached toward one of the spheres that glowed with a dark, almost inverted violet light. Impossible light; a color that should not exist. As soon as the stranger’s fingers drew close, he yanked them away, then turned wide eyes on Gavilar.

“You are a fool,” the man said. “A terrible fool charging toward the highstorm with a stick, thinking to fight it. What have you done? Where did you get Voidlight?”

Gavilar smiled. None of them knew of the secret scholar he kept in reserve. A master of all things scientific. A man who was neither Ghostblood nor Son of Honor.

A man from another world.

“It is set in motion,” Gavilar said, glancing at Restares. “And the project was a success.”

Restares perked up. “It … it was? Is that Light …” He turned to his friend. “This could work, Nale! We could bring them back, then destroy them. It could work.”

Nale. Oh, storms. Gavilar knew—but tried to ignore—that Restares pretended to be a Herald to impress the others. The little man didn’t know Gavilar had become familiar with the Stormfather, who had told him the truth: that the Heralds had all long since died and gone to Braize.

So was this stranger pretending to be Nalan, Herald of Justice? He … had the right look. Many of the depictions were of an imperious Makabaki man. And that birthmark … it was strikingly similar to one on several of the older paintings.

But no. That was ridiculous. To believe that, one would have to believe that Restares—of all people—was a Herald.

The stranger tried to stare Gavilar down. Motionless, his expression cold. A monolith instead of a man. “This is far too dangerous.”

Gavilar continued to hold his gaze. The world would bend to his desires. It always had before.

“But you are,” the man eventually said, stepping back, “the king. Your will … is law … in this land.”

“Yes,” Gavilar said. “That is correct. Restares, I have more good news. We can move Voidlight from the storm to the Physical Realm. We can even carry it between here and Damnation, as you wanted.”

“That’s a way,” Restares said, looking to Nale. “A way … maybe to escape …”

Nale waved to the spheres. “Being able to bring them back and forth from Braize doesn’t mean anything. It’s too close to be a relevant distance.”

“It was impossible only a few short years ago,” Gavilar said. “This is proof. The Connection is not severed, and the box allows for travel. Not yet as far as you’d like, but we must start the journey somewhere.”

He wasn’t certain why Restares was so eager to move Light around in Shadesmar. Thaidakar wanted this information as well. A way to transport Stormlight, and this new Voidlight, long distances. As he was contemplating that, Gavilar saw something. The door was cracked. An eye was peeking through.

Damnation. It was Navani. How much had she heard?

“Husband,” she said, immediately pushing into the room. “There are guests missing you at the gathering. You seem to have lost track of time.”

He smothered his anger at her spying, turning to Restares and his friend. “Gentlemen, I will need to excuse myself.”

Restares again ran his hand through his wispy hair. “I want to know more of the project, Gavilar. Plus, you need to know that another of us is here tonight. I spotted her handiwork earlier.”

Another one? Another Son of Honor.

No, he meant another Herald. Restares was growing more delusional.

“I have a meeting shortly with Meridas and the others,” Gavilar said, calmly soothing Restares. “They should have more information for me. We can speak again after that.”

“No,” the Makabaki man growled. “I doubt we shall.”

“There’s more here, Nale!” Restares said, though he followed as Gavilar ushered the two of them from the room. “This is important! I want out. This is the only way …”

Gavilar shut the door. Then turned to his wife. Damnation, she should know better than to interrupt him. She …

Storms. The dress was beautiful, her face more so, even when angry. Staring at him with brilliant eyes, a fiery halo almost seeming to spread around her.

Once more, he considered.

Once more he rejected the idea.

If he was going to be a god, best to sever attachments. The sun could love the stars. But never as an equal.

Some time later, after he’d seen to Navani, Gavilar slipped away again. To his chambers this time, where he could confront what he’d learned.

“Tell me,” he said, walking across the springy carpet to regard the tabletop map of Roshar. “Why is Thaidakar so interested in Ba-Ado-Mishram?”

The Stormfather formed a rippling beside Gavilar, vaguely in the shape of a person, but indistinct. Like the wavering in the air made by great heat on the stones.

She created your parshmen by accident, he said. Long ago, just before the Recreance, Mishram tried to rise up and replace Odium, giving the Voidbringers powers.

“Curious,” Gavilar said. “And then?”

And then … she fell. She was too small a being to uphold an entire people. It all came crashing down, and so some brave Radiants trapped Mishram in a gemstone to prevent her from destroying all of Roshar. A side effect created the parshmen.

Simple parshmen. They were Voidbringers. A delicious secret he’d pried out of the Stormfather some weeks ago. Gavilar strolled to the bookcase, where one of the new heating fabrials had been delivered to him by the scholar Rushur Kris. He took it from its cloth casing, weighing it.

He had found a way to ferry Voidspren through Shadesmar to this world using gemstones and aluminum boxes. Who would have thought Navani’s pet area of study would be so useful? And if that conniving Axindweth eluded his grasp, he’d have to do the next part without her. He had his scholar, though in truth Gavilar was baffled by the Light he was creating … Light that could somehow kill the Voidbringers? How had Vasher made—

He thought he heard a faint crackling sound from the Stormfather. Lightning? How cute.

“You’ve never challenged what I’m doing,” Gavilar said. “I would have thought that returning the Voidbringers would be opposed to your very nature.”

Opposition is sometimes needed, the Stormfather said. You will need someone to fight, should you become champion.

“Give it to me,” Gavilar said. “Now. Make me a Herald. I need it.”

The Stormfather turned a shimmering head in his direction. That was almost them.

“What, those?” Gavilar said. “A demand?”

So close. And so far.

Gavilar smiled, hefting the fabrial and thinking of the flamespren trapped inside. The Stormfather seemed increasingly suspicious, hostile. If things did go poorly … could he trap the Stormfather himself in one of these?

Soon Amaram arrived with a small collection of people: two men, two women. One man was Amaram’s lieutenant. The other three would be new important Sons of Honor recruits, invited to the feast and given exclusive time with the king after. It was an annoyance, but a worthy one. Gavilar identified the two women from the notes, but not the older man in robes. Who was he? A stormwarden? Amaram liked to keep them around, to teach him their script, which preserved some semblance of Vorin devotion. That was important to him.

Gavilar met each guest in turn, and as he reached the older man, something clicked. This was Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. Famously a man of little consequence or aptitude. Gavilar glanced at Amaram. Surely they weren’t going to invite him into their confidence—they should find the power who secretly ruled Kharbranth. Likely to be one of two women, per Gavilar’s spy reports.

Amaram nodded. So, Gavilar gave his speech about ancient oaths and Radiants—of glories past and futures bright. It was a good speech, but beginning to grate on him. Once his words had inspired troops; now he spent his entire life in meetings. After finishing, he let everyone get something to drink.

“Meridas,” Gavilar whispered, pulling Amaram aside. “These meetings are growing onerous. My experiment was a success. I have the weapon.”

Amaram started, then spoke softly. “You mean …”

“Yes, once we bring back the Voidbringers, we will have a new way to fight them.”

“Or a new way to control them,” Amaram whispered.

Well, that was new. Gavilar considered his friend, and the ambition those words implied. Good for you, Amaram.

“We must restore the Desolations,” Gavilar said. “Whatever the cost. It’s the only way.”

“I agree,” Amaram said. “Now more than ever.” He hesitated. “My efforts with your daughter did not go well earlier. I thought we had an understanding.”

“You simply need more time, my friend. To win her over.”

Amaram hungered for the throne like Gavilar hungered for immortality. And perhaps Gavilar would reward Amaram with it. Elhokar certainly did not deserve to be king. He was exactly the opposite of the legacy Gavilar wanted.

He sent Amaram to talk to the others. Once they had enjoyed their drinks, Gavilar would give another short speech. Then he could be on to … He frowned, noticing that one of the new recruits wasn’t conversing with the others. The elderly man, Taravangian, was staring at the map of Roshar. The others laughed at something Amaram said. Taravangian didn’t even look toward the sound.

Gavilar strode over, but before he could speak, Taravangian whispered, “Do you ever wonder about the lives we’re giving them? The people we rule?”

Gavilar was unaccustomed to people—let alone strangers—addressing him with such familiarity. But then, this Taravangian saw himself as a king, and perhaps as Gavilar’s equal. Laughable, when Taravangian ruled only one small city.

“I worry less about their lives now,” Gavilar said, “and more about what is to come.”

Taravangian nodded, appearing thoughtful. “That was an inspiring speech. Do you actually believe it?”

“Would I say it if I didn’t?”

“Of course you would; a king will say whatever needs to be said. Wouldn’t it be grand if that were always what he believed?” He looked to Gavilar, smiling. “Do you truly believe the Radiants can return?”

“Yes,” Gavilar said. “I do.”

“And you are not a fool,” Taravangian said, musing. “So you must have good reasons.”

Gavilar found himself revising his earlier opinion. A little king was still a king. Perhaps, among all of the dignitaries in the city tonight, here was one who might … in the smallest way … understand the demands placed on the man pressed between crown and throne.

“A danger is coming,” Gavilar said softly, shocked at his own sincerity. “To this land. This world. An ancient danger.”

Taravangian narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not just a Desolation we must fear,” Gavilar said. “They come. The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.”

Taravangian, remarkably, grew pale.

He believed. Gavilar usually felt foolish when he tried to explain the true dangers that the Stormfather had shown him—the contest of champions for the fate of Roshar. He worried people would think him mad. Yet this man … believed him?

“Where,” Taravangian asked, “did you hear those words?”

“I don’t know that you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Will you believe me?” Taravangian asked. “Ten years ago, my mother died of her tumors. Frail, lying on her bed, with too many perfumes struggling to smother the stench of death. She gazed at me in her last moments …” He met Gavilar’s eyes. “And she whispered: ‘I stand before him, above the world itself, and he speaks the truth. The Desolation is near … The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.’ Then she was gone.”

“I’ve … heard of this,” Gavilar admitted. “The prophetic words of the dying …”

“Where did you hear those words?” Taravangian asked, practically begging. “Please.”

“I see visions,” Gavilar said, frank. “Given me by the Almighty. So that we may prepare.” He looked toward the map. “Heralds send that I may become the person I need to be to stop what is coming …”

Let the Stormfather see sincerity in Gavilar. Storms … suddenly Gavilar felt it. Standing there with this little king, he felt it. Never before—in all of this—had Gavilar ever suspected he might be inadequate to the task.

Perhaps, he thought, I should encourage Dalinar to resume his training. Remind him that he is a soldier. Gavilar had the distinct impression that before too long, he would need the Blackthorn again.

Someone is approaching your door outside, the Stormfather warned. One of the listeners. Eshonai. There is something about this one …

One of the Parshendi? Gavilar shook himself. He dismissed Taravangian, Amaram, and the others—happy to be rid of that strange old man and his questioning eyes. The fellow was supposed to be unremarkable. Why did he unnerve Gavilar?

Eshonai entered as Amaram passed along his invitation. The conversation with the parshwoman went smoothly, with him manipulating her—and therefore her people. To prepare them for the role they would play.

After Gavilar grew weary at the feast once the treaty was signed, he retired to his rooms. He sank into a deep plush chair by his balcony, releasing a long sigh. Early in his career as a warlord, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of softness. He had mistakenly assumed that liking something soft would make him soft.

A common failing among men who wished to appear strong. It was not weakness to relax. By being so afraid of it, they gave simple things power over them.

The air shimmered in front of him.

“A full day,” Gavilar said.

Yes.

“The first of many such,” Gavilar continued. “I will be mounting an expedition back to the Shattered Plains soon. We can leverage my new treaty to obtain guides, have them lead us inward to the center. Toward Urithiru.”

The Stormfather did not reply. Gavilar wasn’t certain the spren could be said to have human mannerisms. Today though … that turned-away posture, hinted at in the warping of the air … that silence …

“Do you regret choosing me?” Gavilar asked.

I regret the way I have treated you, the Stormfather said. I should not have been so accommodating. It has made you lazy.

“This is lazy?” Gavilar said, forcing amusement into his voice to hide his annoyance.

You do not reverence the position you seek, the Stormfather said. I feel … you are not the champion I need. Maybe … I’ve been wrong all this time.

“You said that you were charged with this task of finding a champion,” Gavilar said. “By Honor.”

That is true. I do not speak in human ways. But still, if you become a Herald, you will be tortured between Returns. Why is it this doesn’t bother you?

Gavilar shrugged. “I will just give in.”

What?

“Give in,” Gavilar said, heaving himself out of his seat. “Why stay to be tortured and potentially lose my mind? I will give up each time and return immediately.”

The Heralds stay in Damnation to seal the Voidbringers away. To prevent them from overrunning the world. They—

“The Heralds are the ten fools for that,” Gavilar explained, pouring a drink from the carafe near his balcony. “If I cannot die, I will be the greatest king this world has ever known. Why lock away my knowledge and leadership?”

To stop the war.

“Why would I care to stop a war?” Gavilar asked, genuinely amused. “War is the path to glory, to training our soldiers to recover the Tranquiline Halls. My troops should be experienced, don’t you think?” He turned back toward the shimmer, taking a sip of orange wine. “I don’t fear these Voidbringers. Let them stay and fight. If they are reborn, then we will never run out of enemies to kill.”

The Stormfather did not respond. And again Gavilar tried to read into the thing’s posture. Was the Stormfather proud of him? Gavilar considered this an elegant solution; he was puzzled why the Heralds had never thought of it. Perhaps they were cowards.

Ah, Gavilar, the Stormfather said. I see my miscalculation. Your entire religious upbringing … created from the lies of Aharietiam and Honor’s own failings … it pointed you toward this conclusion.

Damnation. The Stormfather wasn’t pleased. It suddenly felt terribly unfair. Here he was drinking this awful excuse for wine to follow the ridiculous Codes—he gave every possible outward show of piety—yet it wasn’t enough?

“What should I do to serve?” Gavilar said.

You don’t understand, the Stormfather said. Those aren’t the Words, Gavilar.

“Then what are the storming Words!” he said, slamming the cup down on the table—shattering it, splashing wine across the wall. “You want me to save this planet? Then help me! Tell me what I’m saying wrong!”

It’s not about what you are saying.

“But—”

Suddenly the Stormfather wavered. Lightning pulsed through his shimmering form, filling Gavilar’s room with an electric glow. Blue frosted the rugs, pure light reflecting in the glass balcony doors.

Then the Stormfather cried out. A sound like a peal of thunder, agonized.

“What?” Gavilar said, backing up. “What happened?”

A Herald … a Herald has died … No. I am not ready … The Oathpact … No! They mustn’t see. They mustn’t know …

“Died?” Gavilar said. “Died. You said they were already dead! You said they were in Damnation!”

The Stormfather rippled, then a face emerged in the shimmering. Two eyes, like holes in a storm, clouds spiraling around them and leading into the depths.

“You lied,” Gavilar said. “You lied?”

Oh, Gavilar. There is so much you do not know. So much you assume. And the two never do meet. Like paths to opposing cities.

Those eyes seemed to pull Gavilar forward, to overwhelm him, to consume him. He … he saw storms, endless storms, and the world was so frail. A tiny speck of blue against an infinite canvas of black.

The Stormfather could lie?

“Restares,” Gavilar whispered. “Is he … actually a Herald?”

Yes.

Gavilar felt cold, as if he were standing in the highstorm, ice seeping in through his skin. Seeking his heart. Those eyes …

“What are you?” Gavilar whispered, hoarse.

The biggest fool of them all, the Stormfather said. Goodbye, Gavilar. I have seen a glimpse of what is coming. I will not prevent it.

“What?” Gavilar demanded. “What is coming?”

Your legacy.

The door slammed open. Sadeas, his face red from exertion. “Assassin,” he said, waving Tearim—in Plate—to tromp in. “Coming this way, killing guards. We need you to put on your armor. Tearim, get it off. We must protect the king.”

Gavilar looked at him, stunned.

Then one word cut through.

Assassin.

I’ve been betrayed, he thought, and found that he was not surprised. One of them had been bound to come for him.

But which one?

“Gavilar!” Sadeas shouted. “We need you in armor! Assassin on the way.”

“Tearim can fight him, Torol,” Gavilar said. “What is one assassin?”

“This one has killed dozens already,” Sadeas said. “I think we should have you in Plate just in case. You could wear mine, but my armorers are still bringing it.”

“You brought your armor to the feast?”

“Of course I did,” Sadeas said. “I don’t trust those Parshendi. You’d do well to emulate me. Trusting too much could get you killed someday.”

Screams sounded in the distance. Tearim, loyal as always, began removing the Plate for Gavilar to don.

“Too slow,” Sadeas said. “We need to buy time. Give me your robe.”

Gavilar hesitated, then met his friend’s eyes. “You’d do that?”

“I worked too hard to put you on that throne, Gavilar,” Sadeas said, grim. “I’m not going to let that go to waste.”

“Thank you,” Gavilar said.

Sadeas shrugged, pulling on the robe as Tearim helped Gavilar suit up. Whoever this assassin was, he’d find himself outmatched by a Shardbearer.

Gavilar glanced toward where the Stormfather had been—but the shimmer was gone.

Spren couldn’t lie. They couldn’t. He’d learned that … from the Stormfather.

Blood of my fathers, Gavilar thought as the Plate locked onto his legs. What else did it lie to me about?

Gavilar fell.

And he knew, as he fell, that this was it. His ending.

A legacy interrupted. An assassin who moved with an otherworldly grace, stepping on wall and ceiling, commanding Light that bled from the very storms.

Gavilar hit the ground—surrounded by the wreckage of his balcony—and he saw white in a flash. His body didn’t hurt. That was an extremely bad sign.

Thaidakar, he thought as a figure rose before him, shadowed in the night air. Only Thaidakar could send an assassin who could do such things.

Gavilar coughed as the figure loomed over him. “I … expected you … to come.”

The assassin knelt before him, though Gavilar couldn’t see anything more than shadows. Then … the assassin—doing something Gavilar couldn’t make out—again glowed like a sphere.

“You can tell … Thaidakar,” Gavilar whispered, “that he’s too late …”

“I don’t know who that is,” the assassin said, the words barely intelligible. The man held his hand to the side. Summoning a Blade.

This was it. Behind the assassin a halo, a corona of shimmering light. The Stormfather.

I did not cause this, the Stormfather said in his head. I do not know whether that brings you peace in your last moments, Gavilar.

But …

“Then who …?” Gavilar forced out. “Restares? Sadeas? I never thought …”

“My masters are the Parshendi,” the assassin said.

Gavilar blinked, focusing on the man once more as his Blade formed. Storms … that was Jezrien’s Honorblade, wasn’t it? What was happening?

“The Parshendi? That makes no sense.”

This is my failure as much as yours, the Stormfather said. If I try again, I will do it differently. I thought … your family …

His family. In that moment, Gavilar saw his legacy crumbling. He was dying.

Storms. He was dying. What did anything matter? He couldn’t. He couldn’t …

He was supposed to be eternal …

I’ve invited the enemy back, he realized. The end is coming. And my family, my kingdom, will be destroyed, without a way to fight. Unless …

Hand quivering, he pulled a sphere out of his pocket. The weapon. They needed this. His son … No, his son could not handle such power … They needed a warrior. A true warrior. One that Gavilar had been doing his best to suppress, out of a fear he barely dared acknowledge, even as he drew his last ragged breaths.

Dalinar. Storms help them, it came down to Dalinar.

He held the sphere out toward the Stormfather, his vision fuzzing. Thinking … was … difficult.

“You must take this,” Gavilar whispered to the Stormfather. “They must not get it. Tell … tell my brother … he must find the most important words a man can say …”

No, the Stormfather said, though a hand took the sphere. Not him. I’m sorry, Gavilar. I made that mistake once. I will never trust your family again.

Gavilar gave a whine of pain, not from his body but from his soul. He had failed. He had brought them all to ruin. That, he realized with horror, would be his legacy.

In the end, Gavilar Kholin, heir to the Heralds, died. As all men, ultimately, must.

Alone.

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

I should have known I was being watched. All my life, the signs were there.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 1

Kaladin felt good.

Not great. Not after spending weeks hiding in an occupied city. Not after driving himself to physical and emotional exhaustion. Not after what had happened to Teft.

He stood at his window on the first morning of the month. Sunlight streamed into the room around him, wind tickling his hair. He shouldn’t have felt good. Yes, he’d helped protect Urithiru—but that victory had come at an agonizing cost. Beyond that, Dalinar had made a deal with the enemy: in just ten days, the champion of Honor and the champion of Odium would decide the fate of all Roshar.

The scope of that was terrifying, yet Kaladin had stepped down as leader of the Windrunners. He’d said the proper Words, but had realized Words alone weren’t enough. While Stormlight healed his body instantly, his soul needed time. So, if battle came, his friends would fight without him. And when the champions met atop Urithiru in ten days—nine, since the first day was underway—Kaladin wouldn’t participate.

That should have made him an anxious, stewing pot of nerves. Instead he tipped his head back, sun warm on his skin, and acknowledged that while he didn’t feel great, someday he would feel great again.

For today, that was enough.

He turned and strode to his closet, where he picked through stacks of civilian clothing neatly laundered and delivered this morning. The city was a mere two days free from occupation and the fate of the world approached, but Urithiru’s washwomen soldiered on. None of the clothes appealed to him, and shortly he glanced at another option: a uniform sent by the quartermaster to replace the one Kaladin had ruined during the fighting. Leyten kept a rack of them in Kaladin’s size.

Kaladin had stuck the uniform to the wall with a Lashing last night, after Teft’s funeral, as a test. Urithiru was awake, with its own Bondsmith, making things … different. His Lashings normally lasted minutes at best—yet here this one was, ten hours later, still going strong.

Syl poked her head into his room—past the hanging cloth doorway—without any thought for privacy. Today she appeared at full human size and wore a havah rather than her usual girlish dress. She’d recently learned how to color her dress, in this case mostly darker shades of blue with some bright violet embroidery on her sleeves.

As Kaladin fastened the last buttons on the high collar of his uniform jacket, Syl bounced over to stand behind him. Then she floated a foot or so into the air to look over his shoulder and examine him in the mirror.

“Can’t you make yourself any size?” he asked, checking his jacket cuffs.

“Within reason.”

“Whose reason?”

“No idea,” she said. “Tried to get as big as a mountain once. It involved lots of grunting and thinking like rocks. Really big rocks. Biggest I could manage was a very small mountain—small enough to fit in this room, with the tip brushing the ceiling.”

“Then you could be tall enough to tower over me,” he said. “Why do you usually make yourself shorter?”

“It just feels right,” she said.

“That’s your explanation for basically everything.”

“Yup!” She poked him. He could barely feel it. Even at this size, she was insubstantial in the Physical Realm. “Uniform? I thought you weren’t going to wear one anymore.”

He hesitated, then pulled the jacket down at the bottom to smooth the wrinkles across the sides. “It just feels right,” he admitted, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

She grinned. And storm him, he couldn’t help grinning back.

“Someone is having a good day,” she said, poking him again.

“Bizarrely,” Kaladin said. “Considering.”

“At least the war is almost over,” she said. “One more contest. Nine days.”

True. If Dalinar won, Odium had agreed to withdraw from Alethkar and Herdaz—though he could keep other lands he controlled, like Iri and Jah Keved. If Odium won, they were forced to cede Alethkar to the enemy. Plus there was a greater cost. If Dalinar lost, he had to join Odium, become Fused, and help conquer the cosmere. Kaladin wanted to think that the Radiants wouldn’t follow as well, but he wasn’t certain. So many people thirsted for war, even without the influence of an Unmade. Storms, he’d felt it too.

“Syl,” he said, dropping his smile. “I’m sure more people are going to die. Perhaps people I care about, but I can’t be there to help them. Dalinar will have to choose someone else to be champion and—”

“Kaladin Stormblessed,” she said, rising higher into the air, arms folded. Though she wore a fashionable havah, she left her hair white-blue, flowing free, waving and shifting in the wind. The … nonexistent wind. “Don’t you dare talk yourself into being miserable.”

“Or what?”

“Or I,” she thundered, “shall make silly faces at you. As I alone can.”

“They aren’t silly,” he said, shivering.

“They’re hilarious.”

“Last time you made a tentacle come out of your forehead.”

“Highbrow comedy.”

“Then it slapped me.”

“Punch line. Obviously. All the humans in the world, and I picked the one without a taste for refined humor.”

He met her eyes, and her smile was still storming infectious.

“It does feel warm,” he said, “to have finally figured a few things out. To let go of the weight and step out from the shadow. I know darkness will return, but I think … I think I’ll be able to remember better than before.”

“Remember what?”

He Lashed himself upward, floating until he was eye level with her. “That days like this exist too.”

She nodded firmly.

“I wish I could show Teft,” Kaladin said. “I feel his loss like a hole in my own flesh, Syl.”

“I know,” she said softly.

If she’d been a human friend, she might have offered a hug. Syl didn’t seem to understand physicality like a human did, though where she’d been born—Shadesmar, the Cognitive Realm—she had a substantial body. He had the sense she hadn’t spent much time on that side. This realm suited her.

Dropping to the ground, Kaladin walked back to the window, wanting to feel the sunlight. Outside he saw the heights of the mountains, capped by snow. Wind blew across him, bringing with it fresh scents of clean, crisp air and a flock of windspren. Including those that made up his armor, who soared in around him. They stayed close, in case they were needed.

Storms, he’d been through so much so quickly. He felt echoes of an anger that had almost entirely consumed him at Teft’s death. Worse, the feeling of nothingness as he fell …

Dark days.

But days like this existed too.

And he would remember.

His armor spren laughed and danced out the window, but the wind lingered, playing with his hair. Then it calmed, still blowing across him, but no longer playful, more … contemplative. All through his life, the wind had been there. He knew it almost like he did his hometown or his family. Familiar …

Kaladin …

He jumped, then glanced at Syl, who was walking through the room in a half dance, half stride, her eyes closed—as if moving to an inaudible beat.

“Syl,” Kaladin said, “did you say my name?”

“Huh?” she said, opening her eyes.

Kaladin …

Storms. There it was again.

I need your help. I’m so sorry … to ask more of you …

“Tell me you hear that,” Kaladin said to Syl.

“I feel …” She cocked her head. “I feel something. On the wind.”

“It’s speaking to me,” he said, one hand to his head.

A storm is coming, Kaladin, the wind whispered. The worst storm … I’m sorry …

It was gone.

“What did you hear?” Syl asked.

“A warning,” he said, frowning. “Syl, is the wind … alive?”

“Everything is alive.”

He gazed outward, waiting for the voice to return. It didn’t. Just that crisp breeze—though now it didn’t seem calm.

Now it seemed to be waiting for something.

Shallan lingered atop Lasting Integrity, the great fortress of the honorspren, thinking about all the people she’d been. The way she changed, based on perspective.

Indeed, life was largely about perspective.

Like this strange structure: a hollow, rectangular block hundreds of feet tall, dominating Shadesmar’s landscape. People—spren—lived along the inside walls, walking up and down them, ignoring conventions of gravity. Looking down along one of the inside walls could be stomach-churning unless you changed your perspective. Unless you convinced yourself that walking up and down that wall was normal. Whether a person was strong or not wasn’t usually subject to debate, yet if gravity could be a matter of opinion …

She turned away from the heart of Lasting Integrity and walked along the very top of the wall. Looking outward to survey Shadesmar: rolling ocean of beads in one direction, jagged obsidian highlands—lined with crystalline trees—in the other. On the wall with her, an even more daunting sight: two spren with heads made of geometric lines, each wearing a robe of some too-stiff glossy black material.

Two spren.

She’d bonded two. One during her childhood. One as an adult. She’d hurt the first, and had suppressed the memory.

Shallan knelt before Testament, her original spren. The Cryptic sat with her back to the stone railing. The lines and pattern that made up her head were crooked, like broken twigs. In the center the lines were scratched and rough, as if someone had taken a knife to them. More telling, her pattern was almost frozen.

Nearby, Pattern’s head pulsed to a vibrant rhythm—always moving, always forming some new geometric display. Comparing the two broke Shallan’s heart. She had done this to Testament by rejecting the bond after using her Shardblade to kill her mother.

Testament reached out with a long-fingered hand, and Shallan—pained—took it. It gripped hers lightly, but Shallan had the sense that was all the strength Testament had. She responded to being a deadeye differently from Maya, who stood nearby with Adolin and Kelek. Maya had always seemed strong of body, in spite of being a deadeye. Spren broke in different ways, it appeared. Just like people.

Testament squeezed Shallan’s hand, bearing no expression but that torpid motion of lines.

“Why?” Shallan asked. “Why don’t you hate me?”

Pattern rested his hand on Shallan’s shoulder. “We both knew the danger, the sacrifice, in bonding to humans again.”

“I hurt her.”

“Yet here you are,” Pattern said. “Able to stand tall. Able to control the Surges. Able to protect this world.”

“She should hate me,” Shallan whispered. “But there is no vitriol in the way she holds my hand. No judgment in the way she remains with us.”

“Because the sacrifice was worth something, Shallan,” Pattern said, uncharacteristically reserved. “It worked. In the end you recovered, did better. I am still here. And remarkably, I am not even a little bit dead! I do not think you will kill me at all, Shallan! I am happy about that.”

“Can I heal her?” Shallan asked. “Maybe if I … if I bond her again?”

“I think, after talking to Kelek …” Pattern said. “I think you are still bonded to her.”

“But …” Shallan glanced over her shoulder at him. “I broke the bond. That did this.”

“Some breaks are messy,” Pattern said. “A slice with a sharpened knife is clean; a slice with a dull one is ragged. Your break, done by a child without full Intent, is ragged. In some ways that makes it worse, but it does mean that some Connection between you two persists.”

“So …”

“So no,” Pattern said. “I do not think that merely saying Words once more would heal her.” His head pattern spun a little more slowly, as if he were contemplating something profound. “These numbers are … perplexing, Shallan. Strangely irrational, in a sequence I do not understand. I mean … I mean that we are walking on unfamiliar ground. A better metaphor for you. Yes. Unfamiliar ground. In the deep past, deadeyes did not exist.”

It was what they’d learned, in part, from the honorspren and from Maya. The deadeyes—all of them except Testament—had been bonded to ancient Radiants before the Recreance. Together they’d rejected their oaths, humans and spren alike. They’d thought it would cause a painful, but survivable split. Instead, something had gone terribly wrong.

The result had been the deadeyes. The explanation might lie with Kelek, the very person Shallan had been sent to Lasting Integrity to kill. She squeezed Testament’s hand. “I’m going to help you,” Shallan whispered. “Whatever it takes.”

Testament didn’t respond, but Shallan leaned in, wrapping her arms around the Cryptic. Pattern’s robe always felt hard, yet Testament’s bent like cloth.

“Thank you,” Shallan said. “For coming to me when I was young. Thank you for protecting me. I still do not remember it all, but thank you.”

The Cryptic slowly, but deliberately, put her arms around Shallan and squeezed back.

“Rest now,” Shallan said, wiping her eyes and standing. “I’m going to figure this out.”

Wind and Truth

I first knew the Wind as a child, during days before I knew dreams. What need has a child of dreams or aspirations? They live, and love, the life that is.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 3

Syl eventually trailed out of Kaladin’s room and into his family’s quarters. He lingered in the sunlight and wind, hovering, because why not? Light here was constantly replenished, and holding the tower’s new Light seemed not to push him to action the way Stormlight did. Instead, holding it was … calming.

Yet he jumped when a loud noise sounded from farther inside, a set of shockspren snapping into appearance around him, like breaking yellow triangles. When he reached the doorway, however, he found the noise was just his little brother, Oroden, clapping. Kaladin calmed his thundering heart. He had lately become more prone to overreact to loud noises—including ones that, upon reflection, were obviously nothing dangerous.

No further words came from the wind, so Kaladin hovered out into the main room, where Oroden was playing with his blocks. Syl had joined him. Though she could make herself invisible, she rarely chose to around his family. Indeed, last night they had discussed a new procedure: When she appeared with color on her clothing, like the violet on her sleeves, it meant she was visible to others. When she appeared as a uniform light blue, only he could see her.

“Gagadin!” the little boy said, pointing. “You need bocks!”

“You” in this case meant Oroden himself—who had noticed that everyone called him “you.” Kaladin smiled, and used his Light to make the blocks hover. Syl, shrinking down, hopped from block to block in the air as Oroden swatted them.

What am I doing? Kaladin thought. A contest for the fate of the world is approaching, my best friend is dead, and I’m playing blocks with my little brother?

Then in response, a familiar voice spoke from deep within him. Hold to this, Kal. Embrace it. I didn’t die so you could mope around like a wet Horneater with no razor. Unlike the wind, this didn’t seem anything mystical. Instead … well, Kaladin had known Teft long enough to anticipate what the man would have said. Even in death, a good sergeant knew his job: keep the officers pointed the right way.

“Fyl!” Oroden said, gesturing to Syl. “Fyl, come fin!” He started spinning in circles, and she joined in, twirling around him. Laughterspren, like silver minnows, appeared in the air. That was another difference in the tower lately—spren were everywhere, showing up far more frequently.

Kaladin sat on the floor amid hovering blocks, and was forced to think about his place. He wasn’t going to be Dalinar’s champion, and he wasn’t the leader of Bridge Four any longer. Sigzil went to important meetings in Kaladin’s place.

So who was he? What was he?

You are … the wind’s voice said softly. You are what I need …

He went alert. No, he was not imagining that.

His mother entered, wearing her hair tied with a kerchief, like she always had when working in Hearthstone. She settled down next to him, nudged him in the side, then handed him a bowl with some boiled lavis grain and spiced crab meat on top. Kaladin dutifully started eating. If there was a group more demanding than sergeants, it was mothers. When he’d been younger such attention had mortified him. After years without, he found he didn’t mind a little mothering.

“How are you?” Hesina asked.

“Good,” he said around a spoonful of lavis.

She studied him.

“Really,” he said. “Not great. Good. Worried about what’s coming.”

A block floated past, steaming with Towerlight. Hesina tapped it with a hesitant finger, sending it spinning through the room. “Shouldn’t those … fall?”

“Eventually, maybe?” He shrugged. “Navani has done something odd to the place. It’s warm now, the pressure equalized, and the entire city is … infused. Like a sphere.”

Water flowed on command from holes in the walls, and you could control its temperature with a gesture. Suddenly a lot of the strange basins and empty pools in the tower made sense; they had no controls, because you activated them by speaking or touching the stone.

Syl got Oroden twirling, then left him dizzy and with a few blocks as a distraction. She popped to human size again and flopped onto her back next to Kaladin and Hesina, her face coated in an approximation of sweat. He noticed a new detail: Syl’s havah was missing the long sleeve that would cover the safehand, and she wore a glove—or she’d colored her safehand white and given it a cloth texture. That wasn’t odd; Navani always wore a glove these days to leave both hands free. It surprised him that Syl was wearing one though. She’d never bothered before.

“How do small humans keep going?” Syl said. “Where does their energy come from?”

“One of the great mysteries of the cosmere,” Hesina said. “If you think this is bad, you should have seen Kal.”

“Oooooh,” Syl said, rolling over and looking to Hesina with wide eyes, her long blue-white hair tumbling around her face. No human woman would have acted in such a … casual way in a havah. The tight dresses, while not strictly formal, weren’t designed for rolling around on the ground barefoot. Syl, however, would Syl.

“Embarrassing childhood stories?” the spren said. “Go! Talk while his mouth is full of food and he can’t interrupt you!”

“He never stopped moving,” Hesina said, leaning forward. “Except when he finally collapsed at night to sleep, giving us brief hours of respite. Each night, I would have to sing his favorite song and Lirin would have to chase him—and he could tell if Lirin was giving a halfhearted chase, and would give him an earful. It was honestly the cutest thing to see Lirin being scolded by a three-year-old.”

“I could have guessed Kaladin would be tyrannical as a child,” Syl said.

“Children are often like that, Syl,” his mother said. “Accepting only one answer to any question, because nuance is difficult and confusing.”

“Yes,” Kaladin said, scraping the last of the lavis from his bowl, “children. That’s a worldview that, obviously, solely afflicts children—never the rest of us.”

His mother gave him a hug, one arm around his shoulders. The kind that seemed to grudgingly admit that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. “Do you sometimes wish the world were a simpler place?” Hesina asked him. “That the easy answers of childhood were, in truth, the actual answers?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “Because I think the easy answers would condemn me. Condemn everyone, in fact.”

That made his mother beam, even though it was an easy thing to say. Then Hesina’s eyes got a mischievous sparkle to them. Oh, storms. What was she going to say now?

“So, you have a spren friend,” she said. “Did you ever ask her that vital question you always asked when you were little?”

He sighed, bracing himself. “And which question would that be, Mother?”

“Dungspren,” she said, poking him. “You were always so fascinated by the idea.”

“That was Tien!” Kaladin said. “Not me.”

Hesina gave him a knowing stare. Mothers. They remembered too well. Shamespren popped into existence around him, like red and white petals. Only a few, but still.

“Fine,” he said. “Maybe I was … intrigued.” He glanced at Syl, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. “Did you … ever know any?”

“Dungspren,” she said flatly. “You’re asking the sole living Daughter of Storms—basically a princess by human terminology—this question. How much poop do I know?”

“Please, can we move on?” Kaladin said.

Unfortunately, Oroden had been listening. He patted Kaladin on the knee. “It’s okay, Gagadin,” he said in a comforting voice. “Poop goes in potty. Get a treat!”

This sent Syl into a fit of uproarious laughter, flopping onto her back again. Kaladin gave Hesina his captain’s glare—the one that could make any soldier go white. Mothers, however, ignored the chain of command. So Kaladin was saved only when his father appeared in the doorway, a large stack of papers under his arm. Hesina walked over to help.

“Dalinar’s medical corps tent layouts and current operating procedures,” Lirin explained.

“‘Dalinar,’ eh?” she said. “A few meetings, and you’re on a first-name basis with the most powerful man in the world?”

“The boy’s attitude is contagious,” Lirin said.

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with his upbringing,” Hesina replied. “We’ll instead assume that four years in the military somehow conditioned him to be flippant around lighteyes.”

“Well, I mean …” Lirin and Hesina glanced at their son.

Kaladin’s eyes were a light blue these days, never fading back to their proper dark brown. It didn’t help that although he was sitting, he was hovering an inch off the ground. Air was more comfortable than stone.

The two of them spread the pages out on the counter at the side of the room. “It’s a mess,” Lirin said. “His entire medical system needs to be rebuilt from the ground up—with training in how to properly sanitize. Apparently many of his best field medics have fallen.”

“Many of his best in all regards have fallen,” Hesina said, scanning the pages.

You have no idea, Kaladin thought. He glanced at Syl, who had sidled over to sit closer to him, still human size. Oroden was chasing blocks again, and Kaladin …

Well, despite his tension, he let himself bask in it. Family. Peace. Syl. He’d been running from disaster to disaster for so long, he’d completely forgotten this joy. Even eating stew with Bridge Four—precious moments of respite—had felt like a gasp of air when drowning. Yet here he was. Retired. Watching his brother play, sitting next to Syl, listening to his parents chat. Storms, but it had been a wild ride. He’d managed to survive.

And it wasn’t his fault that he had.

Syl rested her head—insubstantial though it was—on his shoulder as she watched the floating blocks. It was odd behavior for her, but so was her being human size.

“Why the full size?” he asked her.

“When we were in Shadesmar,” she said, “everyone treated me differently. I felt … more like a person. Less like a force of nature. I’m finding I missed that.”

“Do I treat you differently when you’re small?”

“A little.”

“Do you want me to change?”

“I want things to change and be the same all at once.” She looked to him, and probably saw that he found that completely baffling. She grinned. “Suffice it to say that I want to make it harder for certain people to ignore me.”

“Is being this size more difficult for you?”

“Yup,” she said. “But I’ve decided I want to make that effort.” She shook her head, causing her hair to swirl around. “Do not question the will of the mighty spren princess, Kaladin Stormblessed. My whims are as inscrutable as they are magnanimous.”

“You were just saying you want to be treated like a person!” he said. “Not a force of nature.”

“No,” she said. “I want to decide when I’m treated like a person. That doesn’t preclude me also wanting to be properly worshipped.” She smiled deviously. “I’ve been thinking of all kinds of things to make Lunamor do. If we ever see him again.”

Kaladin wanted to offer her some consolation, but he honestly had no idea if they’d ever see Rock again. This was a different shade of pain, distinct from the loss of Teft, distinct from the loss of Moash—or the man they’d thought Moash had been.

That brought the reality of the situation back to him, along with the strange warnings the wind had whispered. He found himself speaking. “Father, what’s the battle look like currently? A ten-day deadline. Seems like everyone might simply rest and wait it out?”

“Not so, unfortunately,” Lirin said. “I’m warned to expect heavy casualties in the next few days, as Dalinar anticipates the fighting will last right up until the deadline—in fact, he fears the enemy might push harder to capture ground in the Unclaimed Hills and the Frostlands. Apparently, per the agreement, whatever each side holds when the deadline arrives … that’s what they get to keep.”

Storms. Kaladin imagined it: fierce battles over unimportant, uninhabited land—but which both sides wanted to hold nonetheless. His heart bled for the soldiers who would die in the nine days before it all would end.

“Is this the storm?” he whispered.

Syl glanced at him, frowning. But he wasn’t talking to her.

No … that voice replied. Worse …

Worse. He shivered.

Please … the wind said. Help …

“I don’t know if I can help,” Kaladin whispered, hanging his head. “I … don’t know what I have left to give.”

I understand, it replied. If you can, come to me.

“Where?”

Listen to the Bondsmith …

He frowned. The day before, Dalinar had mentioned having a duty for Kaladin in Shinovar, involving the Herald Ishi and some “odd company.” Kaladin had already resolved to go. So perhaps he could help.

Come to me, the wind repeated. Please …

There was a highstorm tonight, and Kaladin had thought to use it—and the Stormlight it offered—to get to Shinovar. However, Dalinar had promised him more details before he left. So, taking a deep breath, Kaladin stood and stretched.

It had been wonderful to spend time with his family. To remember that peace. But even as worn out as he was, there was work for him to do yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his parents. “I’ve got to go. Dalinar wants me to try to find Ishi, who has apparently gone mad. Not surprising, considering how Taln and Ash are faring.”

His mother gave him an odd look, and it took him a moment to realize it was because he was speaking so familiarly of Heralds—figures of lore and religious devotion the world over. He didn’t know any of them well, but it felt natural to use their names like that. He’d stopped revering people he didn’t know the day Amaram branded him.

God or king. If they wanted his respect, they could earn it.

“Son,” Lirin said, turning away from his many sheets of paper. From the way Lirin said the word, Kaladin braced himself for some kind of lecture.

He was unprepared for Lirin to walk over and embrace him. Awkwardly, as it wasn’t Lirin’s natural state to give this sort of affection. Yet the gesture conveyed emotions Lirin found difficult to say. That he’d been wrong. That perhaps Kaladin needed to find his own way.

So Kaladin embraced him too, and let the joyspren—like blue leaves—swirl up around them.

“I wish I had fatherly advice for you,” Lirin said, “but you’ve far outpaced my understanding of life. So I guess, go and be yourself. Protect. I … I love you.”

“Stay safe,” his mother said, giving him another side hug. “Come back to us.”

He gave her a nod, then glanced at Syl. She’d changed from a havah to a Bridge Four uniform, trimmed in white and dark blue, with her hair in a ponytail like Lyn usually wore. It was strange on Syl—made her look older. She’d never truly been childlike, despite her sometimes mischievous nature—and her chosen figure had always been that of a young, but adult, woman. Girlish at times, but never a girl. In uniform, with her hair up and wearing that glove on her safehand, she seemed more mature.

It was time to go. With a final hug for his brother, Kaladin strode out to meet his destiny, feeling like he was in control for the first time in years. Deciding to take the next step, rather than being thrust into it by momentum or crisis.

And while he’d woken up feeling good, that knowledge—that sense of volition—felt great.

Wind and Truth

The Wind told me, before she vanished, that it was the change in Odium’s vessel that restored her voice. I wonder. Perhaps it is the new storm, making people begin to reconsider that the wind is not their enemy.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 3

Shallan and Pattern left Testament to rest and crossed the wall at Lasting Integrity to meet with Adolin, Maya, and the Herald Kelek—who were speaking with a kind of spren that Kelek called a “seon.” She manifested as a hovering ball of light, roughly the size of a head, with an odd symbol at the center. Other than them, the wall top was empty today.

“You don’t remember?” Pattern asked softly as he and Shallan walked. “The events with Testament? I thought you did. I thought, with Veil gone …”

“Veil is not gone,” Shallan said. “She’s part of me, like she always was.”

“I … don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Shallan said. “And … I’m not sure I’ve entirely figured it out. Healing is not an event, Pattern, but a process. I’ve incorporated Veil into myself, so she doesn’t take control any longer, but she’s not gone. Veil is me, but Veil is not always Shallan.”

“But … you are Shallan …”

“Imagine it as Veil moving to the back of the wagon as we ride toward the future. She’s still there, coaching me, and we’re both aware of the world.”

There was more to it than that, of course. Shallan had projected some uncomfortable aspects of herself onto Veil. Now she had to face them. She’d worried that Adolin would find it difficult, but … well, Adolin Kholin was storming wonderful. After their discussion last night, he seemed to understand. Together they knew that there was work to do, but Shallan had taken an enormous step toward healing—and along with it, had acknowledged something important.

She didn’t deserve hatred, but understanding. It was hard to believe, but Veil insisted they try anyway.

“But …” Pattern said. “Radiant is still … separate?”

“More separate,” Shallan said.

“Mmmmm. So … still in the front of the wagon.”

“Yes. That might change. It might not need to change. I’m figuring this out as I go, Pattern, but I feel better. More importantly, I no longer need Veil to stand between me and the memories.”

“So you do remember.”

“Yes and no,” Shallan said. “It’s a jumble. I was young, the events were traumatic, and there is so much pain associated with memories of my mother. I need time to process.”

“Mmmm. Humans are … squishy. Not just bodies. Minds too. Memories too. Ideas too. Mmmm …” He sounded pleased by that.

As a child, she’d bonded a spren, something her mother had … had not liked. A man had come, either to hurt Shallan or to separate her from Testament. Her father had fought him, and during their struggle Shallan’s mother had come at her with a knife. In self-defense, Shallan had killed her mother with an early manifestation of Testament as a Shardblade.

Shallan, in trauma, had rejected her nascent oaths and buried those memories. But if her bond with Testament had never been fully broken … what did that mean? And the memories of the days between her mother’s death and the arrival of Pattern … which of those involved Testament?

I knew I had a Shardblade … long before I’d bonded Pattern. She’d convinced herself that the weapon belonged to her father, and had been kept in his safe. She’d gone there before leaving home, and had drawn it out to dismiss it—ignoring that she’d instantly summoned it when reaching her hand in—pretending it was an ordinary Blade, pretending she needed ten heartbeats to summon it. However, a part of her had known even then that it was Testament, a friend to whom she’d done great harm. That was the one thing Shallan clearly remembered. Testament was her friend. A dimpled pattern on the wall that had delighted, then engaged, then protected a young girl.

Testament had never been as talkative as Pattern. Indeed, Shallan could only remember rare, soft fragments of speech, encouraging her to stand against the darkness in her family. Shallan had loved her mysterious spren dearly; though her memories were jumbled, the emotions shone through the pain. Strength could be a matter of perception sometimes. And today Shallan found she could choose strength.

They approached Adolin, Maya, and Kelek. Shallan still found it incredible this man was one of the Heralds of the Almighty. The short, balding fellow kept rubbing his hands together, as if washing them in invisible soap and water. Adolin and Maya practically towered over him as they talked to the ball of light.

Maya was obviously paying attention. She wasn’t completely healed—her eyes were scratched out and her coloring was a wan brown instead of vibrant green like others of her kind—but she was getting better. She no longer wandered off or just stared blankly during conversations. She was also starting to talk more and more.

“I worry about what is to come,” the ball of light was saying. It had transformed into an approximation of Wit’s face made of soft blue-white light, and spoke with his voice. The spren was a way to contact him, as they’d discovered a few days ago. “The war is set to intensify, and all rests upon the contest of champions. Odium’s chosen warrior versus whoever old Dalinar chooses.”

“Father will choose himself,” Adolin said. “When the Blackthorn needs to be certain something is done right, he will do it himself.” Adolin paused, then glanced at Maya. “Storm him. He probably is our best chance though.”

“Wit?” Shallan said. “It’s really happening?”

“It is indeed,” he said. “The contest is set, contracts agreed to. Shallan, they’ve set it for nine days from now.”

“So soon?” Shallan asked. Storms. “Where?”

“Urithiru,” Adolin said, his arms folded. “They’ve already sent Windrunners to fetch us. Should arrive today.”

Shallan chewed on that, trying not to feel emotional whiplash. It had taken weeks to reach Lasting Integrity—but Windrunners could fly them back to Urithiru within the day, depending on how much Stormlight they brought.

She found herself eager to return. She’d had enough of the honorspren and their elitism. She missed blue skies and plants that didn’t crinkle when you touched them. Though Shadesmar had a sun, it was distant and cold. She could never thrive here.

Plus, as she’d indicated to Testament, she had work to do.

“Wit,” Shallan said, stepping closer. The glowing version of his face focused on her. “My brothers are safe? You’re certain?”

“Very certain, brilliant one,” he said back, softly. “You’re sure the Ghostbloods will move against you?”

“Yes,” she said. After a year and a half of flirting with the Ghostbloods, she’d at last stepped up and said no. Doing so had essentially declared war on them. She found Adolin’s hand for support. He knew the entire story now. “Wit, I know their faces, their plans … I’m likely the greatest threat on the planet to their organization, and they tried to kill Jasnah for less. Everyone I love is in danger.”

“I have to manage Dalinar and try to prepare him,” Wit said, “but I think I can help you as well. I’ve been watching Mraize’s little crew; I’ll send your people my drawings of their members. But take care, Shallan. I know this group and their leader. They can be brutal.”

“As can I,” Shallan whispered. She glanced at Kelek, who was staring out over the bead ocean and the deadeyed spren who remained on the shore. Despite him, she felt safe here with Pattern, Adolin, and Maya. Safe enough to voice it. “Wit, I’m worried. Am I ready?”

“I ask myself that same question now and then,” he said. “And Shallan, I’m ten thousand years old.”

“During the trip,” she said, “I started to create a new persona. Formless. A … version of me, but …” How did she explain it? “A version of me with no face. A version of me who could do terrible things. I walked away from it, Wit, but that capacity is still inside me.”

“Shallan,” he said, and she looked up, meeting his eyes. “If it weren’t for that capacity, then what good would choices be? If we never had the power to do terrible things, then what heroism would it be to resist?”

“But …”

“Did you turn away?” he asked, and Adolin squeezed her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Then heroism it is, Shallan.”

“I’m remembering what I did to my mother,” she said. “And my father. And to a lesser extent Tyn. Now Mraize … I’m going to have to kill him, Wit. Is that my destiny? To kill every person who ever mentored me?”

In that, finally, her fears found voice. Did it sound silly, foolish, ridiculous? This pattern she’d seen in her life? Wit did not laugh though, and he considered himself an expert on what was ridiculous.

“Would that any of us,” he said, “could protect ourselves from the costs heroism often requires. But again, if there were no cost, no sacrifice, then would it be heroism at all? I cannot promise you that it will be easy, but Shallan, I’m proud of you.”

I’m proud of you, Radiant whispered.

I’m proud of you, Veil—the part of her that was Veil—agreed.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I have to go,” Wit said. “But I’ll leave you with this. The Ghostbloods want something extremely valuable, and you have the key to it standing with you right now. If you want to destroy them, you might not need to kill every last one of them. Instead, you might simply need powerful leverage …”

The glowing spren shifted from his face back to a sphere. “He’s gone,” the spren said. “I’m sorry.”

His final words lingered with Shallan, reinforcing something she’d been considering. A way to protect Roshar from the Ghostbloods—and indeed, she knew what their next target was likely to be. They’d sent her to Lasting Integrity hunting the Herald who stood next to her—and Kelek believed that the secret they truly sought was his knowledge of one of the Unmade.

“I need,” she said to Kelek, “to know everything you know about Ba-Ado-Mishram.”

The Herald wrung his hands, then looked to the side as if seeking escape.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Adolin said calmly. “You know that by now.”

“I do,” Kelek said. “It’s just … I wasn’t supposed to be involved. None of us are.”

“I don’t think the other Heralds follow that,” Shallan noted, folding her arms. “What did you do, Kelek?”

“Not much,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I … I can’t do much these days. I don’t know why. I can’t decide. I … I …” He looked up at them, then formed fists, pulling them close to his chest. “I was at Urithiru when the plan to capture Mishram was conceived. Then … I joined them on their mission. I’m … I guess I’m the only one alive who actually knows what happened to her. That’s why the Ghostbloods, and their cursed Lord of Scars, want me.”

“Just tell us,” Shallan said.

“Some of us learned you could capture spren in gemstones,” he explained. “And Mishram—for all her power—is a spren. The Radiants prepared a flawless heliodor the color of sunlight, and they trapped her inside, then hid her prison. Not in the Physical Realm, and not in Shadesmar.” He bit his lip, then forced out another part. “In the Spiritual Realm. Melishi hid it there.”

“How?” Shallan asked, sharing a glance with Adolin.

“I don’t know,” Kelek said, backing away. “I promise you, I don’t know. But now … now they’ll send more people for me, won’t they? They’ll trap me in a gemstone, or they think they’ll be able to …” He looked to the two of them, wide-eyed, then fled toward the way down. None of them gave chase. Unfortunately, this behavior was usual for Kelek.

Maya grunted softly, watching him go. “He’s gotten a lot worse.”

Shallan started. “You knew him?”

“Met him a few times,” Maya said, then took a deep breath. “Never … never thought much of him, even then.”

“Well,” Shallan said, “at least we know something more about Mishram. I suspect her prison is part of what Mraize has been hunting for a long time now. I might need to find it first, before he can.”

“Ba-Ado-Mishram,” Adolin said, thoughtful, leaning back against the wall’s battlements. “The most powerful of the Unmade. What would the Ghostbloods want with her?”

“Mmm …” Pattern said. “Power. So much power. She was nearly a god. She bonded the singers once. Could Mraize want to do something similar again?”

Shallan shivered as she contemplated Mraize and his master, Iyatil, somehow commanding the entirety of the enemy army. Was that possible?

“Whatever the reason,” Shallan said, “I have to stop him.”

“Her prison is in the Spiritual Realm though?” Adolin said, frowning. “What does that even mean?”

“Mmm …” Pattern said. “It means we will never be able to find it.”

“Surely it’s possible,” Shallan said. “If the ancient Radiants put it there, we should be able to take it out.”

“You don’t understand,” Pattern said, holding his hands apart and gesturing in his way. “You think Shadesmar is odd, yes? Black sky. Little sun. Pattern, with arms and legs for perambulating!” His head pattern spun faster. “The Spiritual Realm is stranger by orders of magnitude. It is a place where the future blends with the present, where the past echoes like the striking of a clock. Time and distance stretch, like numbers infinitely repeating. It is where the gods live, and it baffles even some of them.”

Shallan took that in, then glanced at Testament, huddled in the shadow of the wall farther back along the walk. “Our best guess,” she said, “is that the deadeyes were created because Mishram was imprisoned, right?”

“Agreed,” Pattern said. “Mishram became like a god to the singers—the parshmen. She Connected to Roshar, and echoes of that filtered to the spren! Ah, so wonderfully odd. Her imprisonment is the reason broken bonds now have such an effect on the spren.”

“It is because …” Maya said, “… humans have no Honor. The god, I mean. I heard … I heard that Mishram had been captured. I heard that … that Radiants would destroy the world. That was why I decided. Decided I was done.” She shook her head. “I don’t know it all. I’d like to. Considering what breaking … breaking the bond did to me.”

That day—the day Mishram had been captured—something deeper had happened. An event connecting humankind, Honor, spren, and the bonds.

“Then we need to figure out how Mishram, or her imprisonment, has power over our bonds,” Shallan said, looking to Pattern. “We need to go to the Spiritual Realm and find that prison, however difficult it is.”

His pattern slowed, then finally he laced his fingers together. “Very well. Though, you know when I said I was sure you wouldn’t get me killed?”

“Yes?”

“I should like,” he declared, “to make a retraction.”

Wind and Truth

I have read that in the ancient days, the Wind often spoke to both human and singer. It would then mean that the Wind stopped talking not because of Odium, but because of people who began to fear her …

Or to worship the Storm instead.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 4

Kaladin soared up through the central column of Urithiru, Syl beside him.

In the atrium, he still saw signs of the battle that had happened two days ago. Blood that hadn’t been entirely scrubbed away. Broken banisters on balconies. That reminded him of another time he’d flown up this corridor … just after Teft’s murder. Dark, poisoned rage building within—the feeling a fraternal twin to the normal excitement of holding Stormlight.

That man he’d become after killing the Pursuer … that man frightened Kaladin. Even now, lit by calm sunlight. Remembering that man was like remembering a nightmare, and it caused painspren—like little severed hands—to appear on the balconies he passed, leaping off toward him.

He banished those feelings as he landed on a floor near the top of Urithiru. As he alighted in the central chamber where the lifts deposited people, he noted a glow coming from a nearby room.

“Navani,” Syl whispered, her eyes wide. She went light blue, shrank down to spren size, and zipped off in that direction. There was something almost intoxicating about Navani—and her bond with the Sibling—to spren in the tower city. Syl would be back shortly.

Kaladin forced himself to walk, not glide, over to Dalinar’s meeting room. As soon as he left Urithiru, Kaladin would have to return to using Stormlight only when necessary. Best to get into the habit now. As he walked, the wind blew behind him, somehow present all the way within the structure, carrying with it his armor spren as ribbons of light. He didn’t hear the wind’s voice, but it urged him forward, and its warnings echoed in his mind.

There was a small waiting room outside Dalinar’s meeting room. Urithiru had more and more furniture these days, including a couch here. It was, unfortunately, taken up entirely by Wit—who lay face up, filling space that could have accommodated three people, his feet up on one armrest—reading a book and chuckling to himself while a large globe of light hovered beside him. Some kind of odd spren?

“Ah, Wema,” Wit mumbled, turning the page. “You’ve finally noticed what a catch Vadam is? Let’s see how you screw it up.”

“Wit?” Kaladin said. “I didn’t realize you were back in the tower.” It was probably a stupid thing to say. Jasnah was here, so it made sense Wit had come along.

Wit, being Wit, finished his page before acknowledging Kaladin. At last the lanky man snapped the book closed, then sat up and lounged on the sofa a different way, arms spread across the back, one leg crossed on the other, looking like nothing so much as a king on his throne. A very relaxed king on a rather cushy throne.

“Well,” Wit said, his eyes alight with amusement, “if it isn’t my favorite flute thief.”

“You gave that flute to me, Wit,” Kaladin said, sighing as he leaned on the doorframe.

“Then you lost it.”

“I found it again.”

“Still lost it.”

“That’s not the same as stealing.”

“I’m a storyteller,” Wit said, with a flip of his fingers. “I have the right to redefine words.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s literature.”

“It’s confusing.”

“The more confusing, the better the literature.”

“That might be the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Aha!” Wit said, pointing. “Now you’re getting it.”

Kaladin hesitated. Sometimes during conversations with Wit, he wished he had someone to take notes for him. “So …” Kaladin said. “Do you want your flute back?”

“Hell no. I gave that to you, bridgeboy. Returning it would be almost as insulting as losing it!”

“Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Hmmm …” Wit said, reaching into a bag at his feet and slipping out a different flute, this one painted with a shiny red lacquer. He twirled it in his hand. “If only there were something we could do with these curious pieces of wood? They have holes that seem intended for some arcane purpose, beyond the understanding of mere mortals.”

Kaladin rolled his eyes.

“If only,” Wit continued, “there were a way to learn to do something productive with this item. It has the look of a tool. Nay, an instrument! Of mythical design. Alas. My poor finite mind is incapable of comprehending the—”

“If I don’t interrupt,” Kaladin said, “how long will you keep going?”

“Long, long past when it was funny.”

“It was funny?”

“The words?” Wit said. “Of course not. Your face while I say them though? Well, it’s been said I am an artist. Unfortunately, the primary subjects of my art can never experience my creations, as displayed upon their features.” He flipped the flute, then held it out to Kaladin. “Give it a try. It has the same fingerings as the one you lost and recovered, though not the same … capacity.”

“Wit, I can’t play this flute any more than I could play the other one you gave me,” Kaladin said. “I have no idea how.”

“So …” Wit flipped the flute again, then extended it farther toward Kaladin. “All you have to do is ask …”

“I guess I do have to wait for Dalinar,” Kaladin said, looking longingly at the closed door. Dalinar’s meetings often overran, despite the many clocks Navani had given him.

Kaladin felt an urgency to get to Shinovar, but if he wanted to fly all that way without using up a large sack of gemstones—which would be needed in the battle to come—he had to fly with the highstorm, hours away yet. So he had time. And … well, Kaladin felt indebted to Wit. As infuriating as the man—or whatever he was—could be … when Kaladin had been in the worst darkness of the storm, Wit had traveled a nightmare to pull him free.

This man was a friend. Kaladin appreciated him, quirks included. So, he played the role Wit obviously wanted. “Would you teach me?” Kaladin said, taking the flute. “I don’t have a lot of time, but—”

Wit was already moving, whipping some sheets of paper from the bag by his feet. He waved for his strange ball spren to go away, and Kaladin’s windspren followed, flitting out of the room as Kaladin glanced over the pages. They had odd symbols on them, which made Kaladin nervous, but Wit insisted it wasn’t actual writing. Merely marks on a paper representing sounds. It took Kaladin a few minutes to realize the joke.

Still, over the next hour—Dalinar was really taking his time—Kaladin followed Wit’s instructions. He learned the basics of fingering, of reading music, and—hardest of all—how to hold the thing and blow into it properly.

At the end of the hour, Kaladin was able to force out a stumbling rendition of the first line of the music, with notes that sounded breathy and weak in comparison to Wit’s playing. It was an incredibly simple accomplishment, and he didn’t attract a single musicspren, yet Kaladin felt he’d climbed a mountain. He was smiling in a stupid way as Syl, full sized and wearing a havah with purple trim, peeked in to investigate.

Based on the sounds I’m making, she’s probably come to see who’s stepping on a rat, Kaladin thought.

“Nice work,” Wit said. “Next fight, start up a bit of that. Surely the enemy will drop their weapons … probably just to cover their ears.”

“If anyone asks about my skill, I’ll be sure to tell them who my teacher is.”

Wit grinned.

“I know that song,” Syl said, folding her arms.

“Wit played it for us on the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said. “Back when we first met him. The story of the Wandersail.”

“I know it better than that though …” she said.

“Long ago,” Wit said softly, “that rhythm guided humans across the void from one planet to the other. They followed it to reach your world.”

“One of the rhythms of Roshar,” Syl said with a nod. “Made into a song, with the tones of the gods.”

“Gods older than yours,” Wit said from beside Kaladin on the couch.

“When you first played for us,” Kaladin said, remembering that lonely night on the plateaus when he’d still been a bridgeman, “I could swear the sound … came back. You’d play, then talk, and the song would continue to echo. How did you do that?”

“I didn’t,” Wit said.

“But—”

“Ask yourself who was listening that night.”

“Me. Syl. You, presumably.”

“And?”

“And … some guards in the distance?”

Wit shook his head. “Storms, how can you be from this land, yet be so dense. It—”

“The wind,” Kaladin guessed. “The wind was listening.”

Wit smiled. “Maybe you can be salvaged after all.”

“Is the wind a god?” Kaladin asked.

“When this world was created,” Wit said, “long before Honor, Cultivation, or Odium arrived, Adonalsium left something behind on it. Sometimes it’s called the Old Magic. That term is often applied to the Nightwatcher, who came—with Cultivation’s efforts—from one of those ancient spren. Listen to the Wind when it speaks, Kaladin. It’s weaker than it once was, but it has seen so very much.”

“It … told me a storm was coming,” Kaladin said. “And asked for help.”

“Then listen,” Wit said. “And the Wind … she will listen to you in return.” He winked. “That’s all I’ll say about it. I’m not one to give away another’s secrets.”

Lovely. Well, he’d done as Wit asked, so he returned the flute. Would Dalinar ever be finished? “It was a fun way to pass the time, Wit, but I have to ask. Music? What relevance does it have for someone like me?”

“Ah, now there’s a question for the ages,” Wit said, leaning back. “What use is art? Why does it hold such meaning and potency? I can’t tell you, because the short answer is unappealing and the long answer takes months. I will instead say this: every society in every region of every planet I’ve visited—and I’ve been to quite a large number—has made art.”

Kaladin nodded thoughtfully. Wit hadn’t answered his question, but he was accustomed to that. Protesting would only lead to mockery.

“Perhaps the question isn’t ‘What use is art?’” Wit mused. “Perhaps even that simple question misses the point. It’s like asking the use of having hands, or walking upright, or growing hair. Art is part of us, Kaladin. That’s the use; that’s the reason. It exists because on some fundamental level we need it. Art exists to be made.”

When Kaladin didn’t respond, Wit eyed him.

“I can accept that,” Kaladin said. “As an explanation.”

“It’s a tautology.”

“The more confusing the better, right?”

Wit grinned, and then it faded. He glanced at the door.

“Wit,” Kaladin said. “The Wind asked for help. And Dalinar is worried about the coming battle. I get the feeling this next part is going to be difficult.”

“Yeah,” Wit said softly. “I feel it too.”

A straight answer. Those were always disturbing.

“Do you have any … words of wisdom?” Kaladin asked. “A story, maybe?”

“Listen,” Wit said. “Everything you’ve done—Kal, everything you’ve been—has prepared you for what’s next. It’s going to be hard. Fortunately, life has been hard, so you’re working under familiar constraints.”

Kaladin glanced to the side, where Wit was staring off into space, idly spinning the red flute in his fingers. Something in his voice … his face …

“You’re talking,” Kaladin said softly, “as if one of us won’t survive this.”

“I wish I were optimistic enough to think one of us will survive.”

“Wit, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you say you’re immortal.”

“Immortality doesn’t seem to go as far as it once did, kid.” He glanced at Kaladin. “Listen, if the Wind wants your help … well, I think you can rise to what is coming. Probably. Difficult though it will be.”

“Storms,” Syl said, walking forward. “I’m … not sure I like it when he’s serious, Kaladin.”

“Dalinar is going to send you to Shinovar,” Wit said, “because he hopes Ishar can help with the contest of champions. Ishar can’t help, not like that, but you still need to go.”

“Why?” Kaladin asked. “Why go if I can’t do what I’m sent to do?”

“Because this is the journey, Kaladin,” Wit said softly. “The last part of it. Listen to me: I want you to practice with that flute until you make the sound return to you. Because that will mean Roshar is listening.”

What did that even mean? “I think you’ve been reading too many stories, Wit. Riddles aren’t actually helpful.”

Wit launched himself off the couch and crossed the room on legs that suddenly seemed spindly. “The problem is, I don’t actually know what the next part will entail. I have hints and thoughts, but mostly just worries. All I can do is point you toward what might be the correct path. That and keep your hope strong.”

“Jasnah doesn’t believe in hope,” Syl whispered, stepping over by Kaladin. “I heard her complaining about it once.”

“Jasnah would make an excellent Wit,” Wit said, pointing at Syl. “She’s the right combination of smart and stupid all at once.” He smiled in a fond way, and Kaladin thought the rumors about them must be true.

“I’m confused,” Kaladin said. “What are you saying, Wit?”

“That something is wrong,” Wit said, stalking across the room and throwing his hands into the air. “Something is horribly wrong, and has been for several days now, and I can’t figure out what it is. I’ve been waiting for the truth to come crashing down. I don’t know what to do or who to pray to, since the only true God I’ve known is the one we rejected and killed. So I’m sending you off, Kaladin. Hoping that if the Wind spoke to you, then some piece of that ancient deity is watching. Because when everything feels wrong, all I can do is hope.”

“The Passions,” Syl whispered.

“Isn’t that some old Thaylen religion?” Kaladin said. “Something about emotion?”

“Derived, anciently, from the teachings of Odium,” Wit said. “Though it’s not polite to point that out to practitioners of the Passions. People don’t like hearing that their religion was mythologized, as if myth can’t be true. Regardless, Ancient Daughter, I’d think better of you than to bring up the Passions.”

“Why?” she said. “Human religions are all a little silly, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Wit said, “but the Passions teach that if you are fervent enough—if you care enough—your emotion will influence your success. That if you want something badly enough, the cosmere will provide it for you.”

Kaladin nodded slowly. “There might be something to that.”

“Kid,” Wit said, leaning down over Kaladin on the couch, “the Passions are absolute horseshit.”

“What? It’s good to be hopeful! The Passions sound nice.”

“The wrong people get far too much mileage out of things that sound nice,” Wit said. “Take it from a guy who is all too capable with a lie: nothing is easier to sell someone than the story they want to hear. The Passions are deeply insulting if you spare even a moment to consider. I once spoon-fed broth to a trembling child in a kingdom that no longer exists. I found her on a road leading away from a battlefield, after her parents—simple peasants—were slaughtered. Her elder brother lay dead a half mile behind, having starved.

“You think that kid who starved didn’t want to eat? You think her parents didn’t want to escape the ravages of war badly enough? You think if they’d had more Passion, the cosmere would have saved them? How convenient to believe that people are poor because they didn’t care enough about being rich. That they just didn’t pray hard enough. So convenient to make suffering their own fault, rather than life being unfair and birth mattering more than aptitude. Or storming Passion.”

He raised his finger at that last word, and angerspren burst around his feet like pools of boiling blood, as if on cue. Kaladin didn’t know if he’d ever seen Wit so riled up, particularly by something that had nothing to do with their conversation. Though one could never tell with Wit. Non sequiturs that ended up relevant were the daggers he kept strapped to his boots, to be employed when his foes were distracted.

“We need hope, Kaladin,” Wit said, leaning farther forward. “We’re heading straight toward what may be the most difficult moment in our lives. So remember: Hope is wonderful. Keep it, treasure it. Hope is a virtue—but the definition of that word is crucial. You want to know what a virtue truly is? It’s not that difficult.”

“If this entire conversation is the way I learn,” Kaladin said, “then I dispute the idea of it not being difficult.”

Wit chuckled, then stepped back and threw his hands up, angerspren vanishing and gloryspren—tiny spheres of golden light—bursting around him. “A virtue is something that is valuable even if it gives you nothing. A virtue persists without payment or compensation. Positive thinking is great. Vital. Useful. But it has to remain so even if it gets you nothing. Belief, truth, honor … if these exist only to get you something, you’ve missed the storming point.”

He glanced at Syl. “This is where Jasnah is wrong about hope, smart though she is in so many ways. If hope doesn’t mean anything to you when you lose, then it wasn’t ever a virtue in the first place. It took me a long time to learn that, and I finally did so from the writings of a man who lost every belief he thought he had, then started over new.”

“Sounds like someone wise,” Syl said.

“Oh, Sazed is among the best. Hope I get to meet him someday.”

“When you do,” Kaladin said, “maybe some of his wisdom will rub off.”

Wit tossed his flute, spinning it, then pointed it directly at Kaladin. “Congratulations. You’ve practiced music, you’ve listened to a self-important rant, and you’ve delivered quips at awkward points. I dub you graduated from Wit’s school of practical impracticality.”

Syl sat on the couch, though she left no impression in its cushions. She looked completely baffled.

“Wait,” Kaladin said. “Does that make me … your apprentice?”

Wit belted out a loud, full belly laugh, long enough to be uncomfortable. “Kal,” he said, gasping for breath, “you’re still far, far too useful a human being to be an apprentice of mine. You’d end up actually helping people! No, I’ve already had one bridgeboy as an apprentice, and graduated or not, he’s incompetent enough to hold on to the position.”

“I’ll have you know,” Kaladin said, “that Sig is doing a fine job leading the Windrunners.”

“You’ve been corrupting him,” Wit said. “No, you’re not my apprentice, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn a thing or two. A kind of … cross-training in uselessness.” He said it while thrusting his flute into the air.

“You’re so storming dramatic,” Kaladin said.

“Simply trying to give you a proper send-off,” Wit said. “We’re at the end, Kaladin, and you are needed. I want you to march off to your divine destiny with a spring in your step.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do though,” Kaladin said. “War is coming, but I’m not involved. I’m just going to help a maniac return to his senses.”

“That’s it, eh?” Wit said. “Just you becoming your world’s first therapist.”

Kaladin glanced at Syl, who shook her head. “We have no idea what that is, Wit.”

“Because,” Wit said, “you haven’t finished inventing it yet.” He leaned in. “About time someone figured out a method to counteract what I’ve been doing. Now, practice that flute. Get Roshar to listen. Help Ishar. But know that you’re not coming back to aid Dalinar, whatever he thinks.”

“Practice the flute,” Syl said. “Get Roshar to listen to us. Help Ishar. Don’t come back.”

“Exactly,” Wit said. “Now go. The world needs the two of you—more than you, or it, or anyone other than your humble Wit yet realizes. The fight ahead of you will be legendary. Unfortunately, you can’t fight this one with strength of muscle. You’ll have to wield the spear another way. Good luck.”

With a sigh, Kaladin stood up. Then the most remarkable thing happened. Wit extended his hand, and didn’t pull back as Kaladin hesitantly took it. Wit gave a firm shake.

“You know what first drew me to you, Kaladin?” Wit asked. “You did one of the most difficult things a man can do: you gave yourself a second chance.”

“I took that second chance … maybe a third,” Kaladin admitted. “But now what? Who am I without the spear?”

“Won’t it be exciting to find out?” Wit said. “Have you ever wondered who you would be if there was no one you needed to save, no one you needed to kill? You’ve lived for others for so long, Kaladin. What happens when you try living for you?” Wit held up his finger. “I know you can’t answer yet. Go and find out.” With that, Wit bowed to him. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Kaladin asked.

“For the inspiration,” Wit said, straightening and looking to Kaladin, then to Syl, then smiling in a fond, yet somehow regretful way.

Kaladin felt a chill. “I’m … never going to see you again, am I, Wit?”

“No one knows the future, Kal,” he replied. “Not even me. So instead of saying goodbye, let’s call this … an extended period of necessary separation, requisite to give me time to think of the most perfect, exquisite insult. If I never get to deliver it in person … well, kindly do me the favor of imagining how wonderful it was. All right?”

“All right.”

Wit winked at him, then walked over to rap on the door.

Dalinar opened it a moment later. “Have you finally finished with him, Wit?” the man asked. “I’ve been waiting for a storming hour.”

“He’s all yours,” Wit said, striding away. “Remember what I told you.”

“I will,” both Kaladin and Dalinar said at the same time. They glanced at each other.

“Wit,” Kaladin called just before the man vanished. “What about my story?”

“You will tell your own story this time, Kaladin!” Wit said. “And if you’re lucky, the Wind will join in.” Then he was gone, his last whistle slowly fading.

“Did you ever think,” Kaladin said to Dalinar, “that you’d end up dancing to that man’s whims?”

“I suspect,” Dalinar said, stepping back and waving for Kaladin to enter, “we’ve been dancing to them for years without knowing it. Come. I have a few things to tell you two before you leave.”

Wind and Truth

As a historian, I find such nuances relevant. As a philosopher, I find them enticing.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 4

It was nice for Shallan to take a few hours and think for once. Sitting, wearing a bright blue havah rather than her traveling clothing, on the top row of the stone open-air forum in Lasting Integrity, drawing. How long had it been since she’d simply let herself draw? She’d sketched a little during their trip, but that felt like an eternity ago.

She relaxed, flowing with the drawing: a depiction of the vertigo she felt looking up along one of the interior walls of Lasting Integrity. A surreal image like something from one of the older art movements, where perspective was intentionally alien and off-putting. She liked to think that the old surrealists had made contact with spren and Shadesmar, warping their minds to new ways of seeing things.

Though she’d never been as good with landscapes as she was with people, she was proud of the sense her sketch gave of falling—yet into what you could not see, because the unnatural perspective drew your eyes upward.

As with others she’d done today though, strange faces kept sneaking into the art.

In this case, she’d absently warped the shadings of one wall into a face. Feminine, a singer with a crownlike carapace and shadows and curves forming a stratalike design on her face. Shallan flipped through the sketchbook. Each drawing done today had that singer face hidden somewhere, and she didn’t remember making them.

She’d done something similar at Urithiru, where the presence of an Unmade had warped her sketches. She tried not to let it disturb her quite so much this time. Then, it had been a message. Was there a similar one now?

She looked toward Adolin, who paced at the center of the forum—the place where only a few days before, he’d been on trial. Today he’d been joined by Godeke, a lanky Edgedancer. Shallan’s agents had joined them as well: Ishnah, Vathah, and Beryl, along with their Cryptics. Together they waited for the Windrunners, and for the fruits of some final efforts in Lasting Integrity. She started another sketch as they waited.

In the end, twelve arrived.

Twelve honorspren, from a population of hundreds. That was how many showed up in response to Adolin’s call to arms. He and Godeke greeted each one with a smile, but she knew he’d expected more. One other did arrive: Notum. The former sea captain sported his unique facial hair as always, though he walked on unsteady feet. They still didn’t know why he’d been assaulted by those Tukari that Adolin had saved him from.

Notum didn’t join Godeke and Adolin, but instead walked down the steps to Shallan. “Radiant Kholin,” he said.

That was odd to hear, even a year after the wedding. It hadn’t been a foregone conclusion that she would take Adolin’s name; among the Alethi lighteyes, either party was equally likely to keep their name as adopt a new one. In her case, she was needed in the line of Kholin succession. She doubted she’d take a throne that Adolin had refused, but Dalinar wanted people he trusted in line. Her adoption into the Kholin house would strengthen her claim, should it come to that.

In explaining this to her, Dalinar and Navani had been speaking pragmatically—but that wasn’t what Shallan remembered most about that day. For her, it was the day when a set of parents had, for the first time, wanted her.

Notum settled down beside her. “Your mission was a success. Twelve new Radiants.”

“We expected more though,” Radiant said, emerging. “After the support Adolin got at the trial, I anticipated an excellent recruitment result.”

“A good number of honorspren support him,” Notum said, “but that doesn’t mean they want to be bonded. One can be irate at the honorspren leadership and think humans are deserving of support, without wanting to take that step.”

Below, the twelve honorspren started to fade.

“I’ve never seen this before,” Notum added. “I thought they’d go in a blink. Instead they fade away to nothing …”

“Not nothing,” Radiant said. “They’ll appear on the other side.”

“I hear it’s traumatic,” Notum said. He had a stiff, formal way of speaking, even when the words were casual. Clipping each word as if he were making an announcement from the quarterdeck of his ship. “Spren on the other side forget themselves.”

“Only briefly,” Radiant said. “These will probably stay in a group—which helps—and immediately make their way to Urithiru, drawn by the squires training there.”

“Do you still need them now, though?” Notum asked. “Isn’t the war soon to end?”

“Windrunners are our primary method of traveling long distances—and I suspect they’ll be very helpful in peacetime. Beyond that … even if Dalinar wins the contest, I worry about what is to come next. The more Radiants we have, the more stable our position will be.”

“Then I should hurry,” Notum said, standing. “To join them, so that I’m not left alone.”

Radiant approved. But Shallan … she noticed something.

“You sound reluctant,” Shallan said.

He looked at her, glowing the same soft blue as all the honorspren. His uniform, his hair, everything about him was made of the same light—solid, not transparent, but also not quite real in the way she understood reality.

“There is nothing more for me here,” Notum said. “I have been rejected of mine, and have seen their pettiness. I should like to be of service. Though … I admit, I do not wish to bond a human. I loathe the idea. Is that petty of me, in turn?”

“Absolutely not,” Shallan said. “I have two bonds, Notum, and understand the cost better than most. It’s not pettiness, or cowardice, to be hesitant. Just as it’s not petty or cowardly to reject any relationship.”

“Pardon,” Notum said, “but other sorts of relationships don’t lead to soldiers with remarkable powers.”

That did admittedly complicate the matter. But after learning what she’d done to Testament—who sat with Pattern a few rows down—Shallan couldn’t help but question their mission. They needed Windrunners, yes, but it made her increasingly uneasy to demand a spren bond. It wasn’t intimate in the traditional human sense of the word, but it felt as deeply personal.

“We can use every Windrunner, yes,” she said, “but I don’t think you should force yourself to bond a human if it makes you uncomfortable. You can be a good person and say no, Notum. I’ve learned that.”

“Perhaps I will stay here a little longer then,” Notum said. “With effort, I might persuade others of my kind to offer you support.” He pointed, and drew her attention to a group of honorspren walking past, wearing traveling clothing and carrying gear. As if leaving for a long hike. They waved to Shallan and Adolin, but did not join those fading away.

“Objectors?” Shallan asked as Adolin waved back to them. “Those you mentioned earlier?”

“Yes,” Notum said. “They don’t agree with how you were treated, but also don’t want to go to war. They depart Lasting Integrity to make their own way.”

She nodded. “Well, Radiant Godeke is staying to continue to normalize relations with the honorspren, and I might leave one of my agents as well. If you stay, that would help—they could use a solid ally here.”

“I am your ally,” he said, “but as I warned you, the honorspren leadership does not care for me, even if they have been forced to revoke my exile.” His expression grew distant. “We have an entire navy that once sailed the bead ocean; it is a shame to see those ships abandoned in the yards. It gives the enemy full control of the Shadesmar seas. Perhaps I could sail under honorspren authority again …”

Storms, if Shallan hadn’t said anything, Notum might have gone to become a Radiant spren—meaning that she’d just actively gone against their orders in coming here. Perhaps she wouldn’t mention that in her report to Dalinar.

No other spren came. Lusintia, the spren who had been Shallan’s guide since her arrival at Lasting Integrity, made no appearance. Shallan had hoped she would change her mind, despite their occasional clashes.

“Notum, thank you,” Shallan said. “For how you stood up for us during the trial.”

“I am one person stretched thin, Radiant Kholin,” he said, standing with his hands clasped behind him. “Like colors on the mast that have waved too long in the wind. I don’t know what I believe or trust any longer, but what was done to you was not right. I could not play the sham role they demanded of me. I ask your forgiveness for even considering it.”

“It was natural to want your old life back, Notum.”

He turned to her, blue eyes meeting hers. “I lay on the ground, battered and assaulted, and watched your husband rise in my defense against overwhelming odds. He saved me with no expectation of reward. In that moment I knew that Honor lived.” He nodded curtly to Shallan, then walked down the steps to talk with Adolin.

Shallan slowly returned to her sketch—where she soon found that she’d drawn yet another face. In Adolin’s shadow. Storms.

Don’t be unnerved, she thought. You were upset when you drew Pattern for the first time, back in Kharbranth. But look how that turned out.

She would not be afraid of her own art. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to flip to the next sheet and start drawing again, until someone else sat beside her. Kelek leaned forward, hands clasped, seeming small and fragile.

“I’m not going with you,” he said softly. “I … I can’t.”

“It’s not safe for you here,” Shallan said, sketching, her fingers moving as if of their own accord. “If I got to you, Mraize’s other assassins can too.”

“I … I will hide. Better. But I can’t leave the seon, and she can’t travel now. It wouldn’t be good for her.”

Shallan didn’t argue. That never worked well with Kelek. Instead she lost herself in a sketch of him. A Herald to add to her collection. She might have said this was the rarest of gems to obtain, but was a Herald actually rarer than anyone else? One might argue that due to their immortality, they were less so.

“We are broken, Shallan,” Kelek finally said. “We are not the heroes you wish us to be. Not anymore.”

“I know how that feels.”

“I don’t think you do,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself. “I don’t believe anyone does.” He glanced at Adolin, chatting with Notum and Godeke. “You’re really going to try to find Mishram?”

“If I don’t,” Shallan said, “my enemies will.”

“Then what?” he said. “Will you release her? I … I cannot decide. Always cannot decide. I have advocated for her freedom in the past, but now I worry. She might join and strengthen Odium. She … hates humans.” He put his hand to his head. “Ishar says all the Unmade should be contained, yet what we did to the singers by imprisoning her …”

“I’ll worry about that when I find her gemstone,” Shallan said. “Honestly, I’ll probably bring her back to the Bondsmith and let everyone decide together.”

He didn’t respond, so she continued drawing. The familiar sound of charcoal or colored pencil on paper; the distilled attention of creation, like the most potent alcohol. She attracted a few creationspren, little swirling lights. These ones, though, behaved oddly—in here, she’d never seen them change shape like they did in the Physical Realm, but these started adopting the appearance of her pencil or eraser.

She kept drawing. Lines imitating life. Freezing it. But altering it at the same time, for you could never make an exact copy. That wasn’t the point. Every sketch was a picture of the artist as well: their perspective, their emphasis, their instinct reclaiming a moment otherwise lost …

Once you reached the end … it was sublime.

That moment when you basked in the thing you’d created—that feeling of awe mixed with disbelief that this beautiful object had come from you. Accompanied by the slightest worry that because you didn’t understand how you’d done it, you maybe didn’t deserve to have been part of the creation. She loved the feeling, even the uncertainty of it.

“Radiant,” Kelek said, hands clasped as he stared at the stone floor of the amphitheater, “what do you fear?”

What kind of question was that? “I don’t know,” she lied.

“I fear options,” he said. “I see each choice I make, and see the terrible results that could stem from it. If I stay here, I see you fail without me. If I go, I see my presence—broken as I am—cause your failure. I cannot continue. I … I do not …”

She rested her hand on his, then passed him the sketch. He took the picture, frowning, then his eyes widened as he saw it depicted him standing tall, wearing robes and striding from a fanciful city with colorful walls and strange trees with long fronds she’d made up. He carried a staff with an odd shape at the top, and strode toward a glowing light on the horizon—though in the picture, he looked backward and his face was determined. Decisive.

“Do you often do this?” he asked.

“Sketch people?” she said, then blushed. “Yes, I kind of do it all the time. When I’m feeling like myself, at least.”

“Not simply sketching, child. Do you often draw upon Fortune? Glimpse someone’s possible selves, and pull one forth … touch, in some small way, what could have been. What might still be …” He glanced to her, and must have seen the utter confusion in her eyes, as he sighed. “Is this a skill commonly employed by Lightweavers during your time?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “But I don’t exactly understand what you’re saying.”

He glanced toward Pattern and Testament. “Two spren. Of course … you’ve bonded two. Strange things happen when the Nahel bond is imbricated. There were rules against it once, I believe. How long have you had them both?”

“For some time,” she said, “though I didn’t know it—didn’t remember it—until recently.”

“And how often,” he asked, holding up the sheet, “do you glimpse into the Spiritual Realm, then manifest it in your art?”

“I …” She thought back to pictures she’d done, like one found in the pocket of a dead man. Like sketches of the Unmade lurking in Urithiru … or faces turning up in her art without her intending to draw them. She began to feel like a fool for objecting so quickly to someone who clearly knew far more about these things than she did.

“It might happen now and then,” she said. “There was an Unmade in Urithiru, and it showed up in my art. Now these faces …” She turned one toward him.

He nodded. “Because you’ve been thinking about traveling to the Spiritual Realm and finding Ba-Ado-Mishram.”

“That’s her?”

“One interpretation of her, yes,” he said. “If you were someone else, I would assume you had seen some ancient art and were unconsciously influenced by it. For you …” He shrugged. “Fortune can do unthought, fantodic things.”

“I’m sorry. Fantodic?”

“It means … unnerving?” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t keep up on shifts in language, nor am I an expert on Fortune. Best speak to Midius—your Wit—about that. A fantodic man himself, that one.”

He took her page and carefully folded it to place in his pocket. She cringed at that—she hadn’t applied lacquer to keep it from smudging—but was distracted by something happening up beyond the walls of Lasting Integrity. A group of glowing figures were descending, trailing various kinds of spren who could soar with them—attracted to their use of Stormlight. The Windrunners had arrived.

Seconds later, Drehy, his spren, and some of his squires landed nearby, holding common spears, as Shardblades couldn’t enter Shadesmar. At least not in Shardblade shape.

“I believe,” Drehy said, “a lighteyed lady ordered a palanquin trip to Urithiru?”

“Funny-looking palanquin, Drehy,” Shallan said, rising.

“Now, that’s not nice, Brightness,” Drehy said, thumbing over his shoulder at one of his squires. “Shiosak there might have been dropped a few times as a child, but he isn’t funny looking. He’s unique.”

Shiosak—who was actually a rather handsome, affable Veden man—rolled his eyes.

Five Windrunners. Not enough to take everyone; Adolin’s soldiers, and likely some of her agents, would have to make the more boring trip back via boat. Most wouldn’t mind that. The bigger problem would be Adolin—who would have to leave his horse and his swords behind. Shallan stood up as her husband, grinning ear to ear, came jogging up the steps. He knew Drehy, of course. Adolin knew everyone. She watched him count the Windrunners, do the calculations in his mind, and come to the same conclusion.

Almost.

“How many of you,” Adolin said, “will it take to fly my horse home?”

Wind and Truth

Regardless, the events surrounding the cleansing of Shinovar are of specific relevance, and I am doing my best to record what I can discover of the Wind’s own words regarding them. Though, now that the Wind and Heralds have vanished, I have only two sources who can speak of these events.

They are my witnesses.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 5

Dalinar looked out a window at the frosted peaks of the Ur mountain range. Kaladin knew these lands were probably claimed by some kingdom, yet it was difficult to imagine. Owning fields was one thing, but mountains?

If someone could claim them though, it would be the mountain of a man by the window. Dalinar didn’t lean against the stone frame to relax as another might have. He clasped his hands behind him, his spine straight. Wearing a Kholin blue uniform with his glyphs on the back: the tower and the crown.

Szeth sat on the floor near the far corner. Dressed once more in white, head shaved. Eyes closed with his long, silvery-sheathed Shardblade in his lap. Kaladin had always thought the weapon wicked in appearance, with those hooked crossguard arms and the jet-black hilt. Szeth appeared to be meditating. Calm, rhythmic breaths. Storms, even when relaxing, the man was unnerving.

Syl maintained both her human size and the colors on her havah as she walked over to stare Szeth in the face to see if he was peeking.

“How are you feeling?” Dalinar asked. “About your upcoming task?”

“Good, sir,” Kaladin said. “The world is going to be different, whatever happens in ten days. Wit says I need to find a new place in it—so I’m going to try this. You asked me to be a surgeon, not a soldier. I’m game.”

A surgeon for the mind—who didn’t cut with a scalpel, but with calm words and understanding. Storms, that seemed so much more difficult.

“Excellent,” Dalinar said. “I’ve had reports on the men you helped with their battle shock. It’s remarkable.”

“Take a person from the darkness and show them that light still exists. It won’t fix everything, but it does make a difference.”

“Light,” Dalinar said, gazing out across snowfields reflecting sunlight like liquid diamonds. “Ishar said something about light, when he told me he wanted to refound the Oathpact. Saying the Words—the moment when an oath is sworn, even by someone else nearby—brings clarity … and should restore him, if briefly.” He glanced toward Szeth.

“Sir?” Kaladin asked.

“I’m sending Szeth with you.”

“He’s the companion you promised me?” Kaladin said.

“I return to my homeland,” Szeth said softly, “to set right what is wrong. To cleanse an evil. To achieve the Fourth Ideal, a Skybreaker must undertake a crusade of righteous cause. Upon completing it, I will be poised for the final step, in which a man becomes the law itself. I wished to go alone, but Dalinar has insisted I bring you.”

Kaladin took that in, then stepped closer to Dalinar, turning his back on Szeth—which felt very wrong to do. “Sir,” he hissed. “That man is not stable. He doesn’t need to be sent on a quest. He needs time, attention, and the help of …”

Kaladin trailed off as he noticed Dalinar’s expression.

“Storms,” Kaladin said. “You think I can do something to help Szeth while he’s trying to ‘cleanse the evil’ of his homeland?”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, firm. “You up to it, soldier?”

Kaladin glanced over his shoulder at Szeth. “Sir, with all due respect, I have managed to help one group of men suffering a mental burden that I understand from personal experience. You can’t expect me to replicate that kind of success with an extreme case like Szeth. I would need months to devise a treatment!”

“We should … speak in private. Plus, I feel like I need some perspective. What about you, soldier?”

“Always, sir,” Kaladin said as Syl joined them, head cocked, eyeing Dalinar.

“Excellent,” Dalinar said, turning and walking toward the door. He took a small wooden box from a table by the wall, then tucked it under one arm. “Szeth, will you be fine here on your own for a while?”

“I’m never alone,” the man said in his lightly accented voice. “Even without spren or sword, I’d have the voices.” He looked straight at Kaladin with all the emotion of a corpse. Storms. Dalinar wanted him to help that man? The assassin who had killed Dalinar’s own brother?

Kaladin followed Dalinar out, expecting them to chat in the next room, but Dalinar led them up the steps to the roof of Urithiru. Kaladin hadn’t been up here since …

Well, since he’d thrown himself off.

“I find that this view helps me think,” Dalinar said, turning around to survey the mountains. “How far one can see, when no walls obstruct.” He grew contemplative, and seemed to want a minute, so Kaladin gave it to him, walking toward the edge of the tower.

“Storms,” he said to Syl, reaching the railing. “It feels surreal to be here again. And it’s so warm.”

“It’s Brightness Navani,” Syl said, leaning over the side to look down. “And her bond to the tower. This city flourished with life once. It will again.”

“Reminds me of home,” Kaladin said. “It’s more humid there than on the Plains.”

“Home …” Syl glanced toward the sky, where Kaladin’s armor spren played. Her ponytail loosened, letting her hair fly freely, white-blue, waving in real wind. She grinned at him. “I never felt like I had a home until I found this.”

“Urithiru?” Kaladin asked.

“By association, yes.”

“Have you been taking lessons on being enigmatic from Wit?”

“Hardly,” she said, resting against the stone railing. “Your family is here now, Kaladin. Does that make this your home now?”

“I suppose it has to be. My other home is in the hands of the enemy.”

“Not just the enemy,” Syl said. “The singers.”

It was a valid point, difficult to remember. It was their home as well. The Alethi parshmen had been enslaved too, but had taken their homeland for themselves. In other circumstances, he would have cheered their fight—he knew precisely what it was like to have your dignity stripped away, to be beaten until you lost personality and volition, becoming a thing.

He looked again toward Dalinar, whose contest with Odium was supposed to offer a way out of this mess. Kaladin walked over, the breeze in his face—which always felt invigorating.

“I keep hoping,” Dalinar said softly, “that there are answers somewhere.”

“Sir?”

“I have set us on a collision course with destiny,” he explained. “If I lose, I might have roped all of us into a much greater war than we knew was possible.”

“So you have to win,” Kaladin said.

“I do,” Dalinar said. “But I can’t imagine what the contest will be like. I feel it won’t be a clash of swords, but what? What am I missing? Have I doomed us, Kaladin?” He took a deep breath, and with the arm that the small wooden box was tucked under, he pointed out at the field of white snowcaps. “Can you take us to that peak? The big one that looks like the tallest spike on a crown.”

“Sir,” Kaladin said, “the tower’s warmth won’t reach that far.”

“Exactly the point, Kaladin.” Dalinar held his hand toward him. “If you please.”

Kaladin breathed in, drawing strength—Light—from the tower. He Lashed them upward, Syl shrinking and zipping after them as Kaladin flew Dalinar to the specific peak, his armor spren spinning about him. The transition to colder air was gradual—the circle of warmth around Urithiru was more like a corona than a bubble. Bare stone gave way to little rivers of snowmelt, which gave way to icy slush, until they finally entered a realm of deep-packed snow.

As they drew close, the Towerlight he’d taken failed him, and he had to rely on Stormlight from his pouch. It seemed the human body couldn’t hold Towerlight unless it was right by Urithiru. Once he’d taken in replacement Light and stabilized them, he increased the pressure. The tower’s protections offered more than just warmth. Rock could talk all day about how the air in the Peaks was healthier, but Kaladin had seen firsthand that people found it hard to breathe up this high. Fortunately, Kaladin’s powers included a more nebulous ability to sculpt pressure and air.

He kept a little invisible bubble of thicker air around them. It was something he had been doing instinctively, but wanted to be more conscious of. Syl returned to full size as Kaladin settled himself and Dalinar down into the snow with a crunching sound. Such bizarre stuff. Why did it crunch? It was only very cold water, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t it crack?

Their breath puffed in the air—except Syl’s, of course. Though she did mimic breathing; her chest subtly rose and fell. Had she always done that?

Coldspren began to grow around Kaladin’s feet, like little crystal spikes. Dalinar picked up a handful of snow and let it trail between his fingers. “Navani says that some of the deeper snow here is likely ancient. We walk on strata of ice like the strata of rock, for it never gets warm enough up here for it to melt. It remains frozen. For eons.”

“Sir?” Kaladin said. “Why did we come out into the cold?”

“I wanted to look at the tower from the outside,” he said, turning and studying Urithiru. “I never can get a good view of it from the Oathgates. It’s too massive.”

Kaladin stepped up beside Dalinar and examined the tower, their breath puffing in front of them.

“Roshar has seen so many versions of this war, Kaladin,” Dalinar said softly. “We’ve been fighting the singers since our first generations on this planet, a time that stretches back far beyond our written histories. Through multiple calamities, and the almost utter loss of civilization. I want to see that cycle ended.”

“We all want that, sir,” Syl said.

“I know. Yet I can’t help wondering. Should one man have such power and authority as I do?” Dalinar shook his head. “Jasnah puts ideas in my mind, like cremlings wintering in the heart of a plant, eating it from the inside until the weather turns. The world didn’t decide upon this contest. I did. Was there a better way?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Kaladin said. “I really don’t.”

“Well,” Dalinar replied, “you’re not the only one going into a situation blind, soldier. I respect your complaints about Szeth. I understand them. He is a difficult case, and you have only just begun to learn how to help those with mental wounds.” Dalinar turned, scanning the snowfield. From here the peak of the mountain didn’t seem pointed at all—merely a gentle hilltop covered in snow. “And yet, all these eons. All those deaths, like strata beneath our feet … We need to change, Kaladin. To do things differently. I think we start by not throwing people away when we worry they’re defective.”

“He murdered dozens.”

“On orders from the person who was effectively his owner,” Dalinar said, “while in a compromised mental state. He’s trying to find a better path. Kaladin, when I asked you to step down from your post, how did you feel?”

“Worthless,” Kaladin said, remembering what Wit had told him. Who would you be if there was no one you needed to save, no one you needed to kill?

“You saved me from Szeth once,” Dalinar said. “Now I’m asking for a different kind of rescue. Save him, and save the Herald Ishar. Hard, I know, but I want you to try anyway. Because this is the end, and I don’t have other options.”

Kaladin glanced at Syl, who nodded. And storm him, Dalinar was right. Again.

“I’ll try to help them,” Kaladin said. “I’ll do what I can. But sir … you should know. Wit told me I won’t be able to come back in time to help you.”

“He said that, did he? Well, Szeth can write, so we can send a spanreed with you to report back that way, in case you truly can’t return in time.”

“I guess,” Kaladin said. “But … well, Wit told me that Ishar couldn’t help you, sir. Not in the way you want.”

Dalinar grunted. “What else?”

“Mostly just that … and that I should listen to the Wind, and Roshar.” Kaladin took a deep breath. “I think the Wind has been speaking to me, sir. A … version of it that is a spren? I don’t fully understand. It told me to listen to you though.”

“Well, I appreciate it for that. The Heralds are important; they’re part of this. I can’t explain why yet, but I have felt it in my gut for weeks now. Maybe longer.” Dalinar put a firm hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, wet from the snow, his foot crunching as he moved. “Ishar … he’s not like Ash or Taln. He’s active, and planning to interfere with what we’re doing. He’s dangerous. Exceptionally dangerous.” Dalinar met his eyes. “He’s in Shinovar, which means he has the Honorblades.”

Syl whistled softly.

“Each weapon,” Dalinar said, “is as dangerous as the one Szeth used to wreak terror across Roshar. Ishar thinks he’s the actual champion, not me. Either that or he thinks he’s the Almighty himself … probably some crazed mix of both. He was able to raise an army in Tukar. Now he’s in Shinovar, which we know nothing about, and which has been suspiciously quiet for this entire war. I’m worried.

“Szeth is going regardless, but I can’t rely upon him for anything needing nuance or strong decision-making. I can rely on you for both. I need someone watching my back, soldier. I don’t want to find myself outmaneuvered by a madman at the last moment. Maybe if we’re lucky, you’ll be able to get through to Ishar and bring me help, despite what Wit fears. Even if not, I need some eyes on that land. We’ve ignored it far too long.”

Storms. This was his true task: help a demigod overcome his megalomania. By Sigzil’s reports, Ishar had been taking spren from Shadesmar and bringing them physically to this realm—permanently killing them in the process. Creating twisted half-flesh bodies for them that could not survive.

Each of the Heralds was suffering some kind of severe mental trauma. Worse, Kaladin worried that their problems were partially supernatural in nature. Who was Kaladin to try to figure out the pathology of gods?

He didn’t say any of this, because he knew the answer.

Who was Kaladin to do this?

The only person available. Stormfather help them all.

“We’ll do it, sir,” Syl said. “Well, Kaladin will do the mental healing bit. I’ll do what I can though.”

This drew an odd glance from Dalinar. He wasn’t used to honorspren being visible to anyone but their Radiant, let alone ones who walked around full sized and acted like soldiers. Kaladin, though, found it appropriate. In a way, Syl had kicked all this off by deciding to bond him. Why shouldn’t she get a voice in agreeing to their next mission?

“Good,” Dalinar said to the two of them. “I do have … one other thing, Kaladin. Do you still have that cloak I gave you when you first joined my army?”

“I do,” he said. “I keep it as a mark of pride, sir, though I don’t often wear it. Doesn’t match the uniform, and … well, it has your house glyphs on the back. Emblazoned to indicate a member of the royal family.”

“I can understand that,” Dalinar said. “House Stormblessed is a new lighteyed house, sure to begin its own grand traditions. It’s not normally fitting that you would wear another house’s glyphs.”

“Except?” Kaladin asked.

The man untucked the small wooden box from under his arm and opened it, then took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was covered in script, which Dalinar looked over. Kaladin’s instinct was to glance away, as a man reading was … well, embarrassing, even still. But times were changing, and Kaladin himself had invited women into the military. So he didn’t avert his eyes.

“My sons,” Dalinar said softly, “have both declined to be named as my heirs to any throne I might claim.”

“I know, sir,” Kaladin said. “That’s why Jasnah was chosen as queen.”

“Queen of Alethkar,” Dalinar said. “In exile. I have a second throne now, shared with Navani, here at Urithiru. Yet we are old, and our children are either unwilling or already committed. Jasnah is dedicated to restoring Alethkar, and wishes her focus to stay there. Gavinor must remain her heir, to the Alethi throne. He will ascend to it if she dies.”

“At his age?” Kaladin asked.

“A child can, and must, inherit to preserve the throne,” Dalinar said. “That settles Alethkar, which is separate from Urithiru and from the Knights Radiant. So this kingdom has no heir to take over should something happen to me and Navani.”

Dalinar turned, holding the sheet of paper, and looked to Kaladin. Syl gasped. Pale yellow shockspren burst around Kaladin, and he felt his insides crumbling. “Sir,” he said, going stiff. “Please, no. I’m broken.”

“Life breaks us,” Dalinar said. “Then we fill the cracks with something stronger.”

“Renarin. He’s Radiant.”

“He can see glimpses of the future, and what he’s seen makes him reject this charge. I support him in this. Soldier, Renarin is bonded to a corrupted spren, and we as yet don’t know the effects that might have. Adolin flat-out refuses. I … hope to be able to resolve our problems, as I worry I am the reason he turned down the throne of Alethkar. But even if we did, Urithiru should have a Radiant at its head.” Dalinar held out the sheet to Kaladin. “I will not force this upon you, Kaladin. But I will ask, because I must. Will you be our heir?”

It was like a cold bucket of rainwater thrown over him. He couldn’t respond. Being an officer was difficult, being a lighteyes worse, but being royalty?

“Son,” Dalinar said softly. “I see your hatred still. Hopefully not for anyone specific—but for what has been done to you. In the last years, I’ve been forced to accept that the distinction between lighteyes and dark is one of pure social construction. Nobility is not of the blood, but of the heart. But it must go the other way too. You don’t like what we represent, but to continue feeling as you do … it will eat you from the inside.”

“I know,” Kaladin forced out. “But this?”

“Nothing more,” Dalinar said, handing him the document, “than a duty to serve. Navani and I are Bondsmiths. If I fall in this contest, she will take the throne. She will also be a target though, and it is entirely possible that neither of us will survive.

“If the worst happens, present that letter at Urithiru. It is ratified by multiple ardents. I’ve spoken to Jasnah, the highprinces, and the other monarchs about this, and everyone agrees that a Radiant is best for this duty. Unfortunately, most of them are untested. It is, of course, your decision. If you don’t take the throne, I’ve arranged for Dami to be next.”

Dami. He was a Riran Stoneward, with whom Kaladin hadn’t spent much time. He was well liked, however, and had reportedly said the fourth oath the day before, after the campaign in Emul, becoming the third to do so after Jasnah and Kaladin.

“If he won’t do it,” Dalinar added, “then it will fall to the highprinces of Alethkar. Aladar first and—God Beyond help us—Sebarial after that.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He’s good with money.”

“So good half of it ends up in his pocket.”

“He’s a better man than he gives himself credit for. Navani thinks the state of his books is a front for his hidden competence. Regardless, I hope that we’ll all survive, and other Radiants with proper leadership training can be placed into the line. Or perhaps something like Jasnah has always dreamed of, a more … representational method of governance. You should read some of her essays on the topic.”

“I …” Kaladin glanced at Syl for support.

She grinned back at him.

“You’re not helping,” he said.

“I’m kind of royalty already,” she said. “It’s not so bad. Trust me.”

“It’s not the same.” Kaladin looked down at the paper. “I will do what I can for Ishar and Szeth, sir, and send you information on Shinovar. But this letter … this is too much.”

“I’ll accept your decision,” Dalinar said. “All I ask is that instead of making an immediate judgment call now, you consider a little while. For me. Out of respect?”

Storming man. But he was right—this was something that should be given some time. Kaladin forced himself to fold the sheet and put it into his pocket. Logically, there was no difference between darkeyed and light—and he was a lighteyes anyway now. Ruler of a small piece of land in Alethkar that he’d probably never visit. Even so, this felt like a betrayal.

“I’ll consider it,” he said anyway.

Wind and Truth

However, the Wind did not think like a person does. This should not surprise anyone who has familiarity with a spren, though such things are less common now than they once were.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 5

They brought the horse.

They literally brought the storming horse.

With Adolin riding it.

Shallan stood on the obsidian stone outside Lasting Integrity with her hands on her hips. Adolin’s soldiers were breaking camp around them. The honorspren group who had left earlier had gathered in the near distance, deciding their next move.

Gallant, Adolin’s Ryshadium, had a bit of a glow to him beyond that of the Lashings. When he moved his head, he left an unusual afterimage. She’d never understood why. Now, with Stormlight, he glowed even more. Shallan expected the enormous black horse to panic as he hovered a few feet off the ground, but while Gallant worked his legs as if he were running in slow motion, he otherwise seemed calm.

Adolin grinned at her from the horse’s back.

“You could leave the equipment behind,” Shallan said, folding her arms. “You don’t need all of that, do you?”

“Shallan,” he said, offended. “I’m traveling light! I’ve left ninety percent of my clothing.”

“And brought all of your swords.”

“I need them.”

Most of the weapons were packed away in special boxes hung from Gallant’s sides, though a few—like Adolin’s pet greatsword—were in their own sheaths attached to the saddle. Shallan walked up and tapped the enormous two-handed weapon. “You need this? Adolin, it weighs almost as much as a person.”

“It weighs seven pounds,” Adolin said dryly. “Have you ever wielded anything other than a Shardblade?”

“My razor-sharp wit.” She hesitated. “Okay, maybe more like blunt-force wit, applied liberally, with no regard for collateral damage.” She patted Gallant on the side and walked forward past his moving legs—which ended in wide stone hooves, flatter and harder than those of common horses. He looked down and met her eyes with glassy blue ones of his own, then turned his head up toward the sky. Almost aspirationally. As if he’d been waiting for a chance to fly.

Well, she supposed if it wasn’t going to panic him … She couldn’t decide, though, if Adolin—strapped in, glowing faintly himself from a Lashing—was inspiring or patently comical. She glanced at Maya, who folded her arms and was smiling, shaking her head. Storms, she was making so much progress so quickly. It gave Shallan hope for Testament.

That thought made her turn toward the rocky shore between land and glass-bead ocean. Several dozen figures lingered there, standing waist-deep: a variety of spren, each with their eyes scratched out.

“There were hundreds of deadeyes on that shore at one point,” Adolin said softly. “Do you think they knew about the trial somehow? And what Maya would say?”

“They had to,” Shallan said.

“Who told them though?”

She thought of her sketches and the strange things her fingers sometimes knew. “No one.”

As they watched, a cultivationspren like Maya turned and walked out into the ocean.

“They return,” Maya said in her rasping voice. “Return. To the place … where they were lost.”

“You mean they return to the bearers of their Blades?” Adolin said.

A living Shardblade like Pattern never fully returned to Shadesmar while their Radiant was in the Physical Realm. Shallan would summon him as a Blade, and his little pattern form would fade from her skirt—or from wherever it was—and travel instantly to her as a Blade. When she dismissed that Blade, he’d appear as a little pattern again. He was only physical in Shadesmar right now because she’d traveled here through an Oathgate.

Deadeyes were different. When dismissed as Blades, they returned to Shadesmar to wander. Notum had told her once that they tended to stay near where the bearer of their Blade was in the Physical Realm. So many of them. Hundreds, living these terrible half lives. “We’ll help them, Maya,” Shallan said. “Once we figure out how to replicate the progress you’ve made.”

She nodded. Behind them, the Windrunners lowered Gallant back down. The horse snorted in annoyance. Or … could she really say it felt such emotions? Maybe she was being influenced too much by Adolin, who swore that Ryshadium had near-human levels of intelligence. Surely it wasn’t annoyed; it was just snorting the way horses did.

Maya continued to stare as another deadeye walked into the bizarre surf.

“Lost,” Maya whispered. “Those are lost Blades, Adolin.”

Adolin dismounted. “Lost Blades, Maya?”

“Swords,” she said. She still labored sometimes to speak. “In stone. In water. Lost. For so many, many years …”

“What happens to a Shardblade if it’s abandoned?” Shallan asked. “Like if a ship bearing a Shardbearer sinks?”

“It stays there forever,” Adolin said. “Maya, they wouldn’t be here if they’re lost. They’d be manifested as Blades in the real world.”

“No,” she said. “People stop thinking about them. They fade away after centuries … to be lost. Their sword vanishes from your world, and they wander forever.”

“Poor things,” Shallan said as the last few turned and walked away into the beads. “We will help them, Maya. Adolin and I will make the time, when this is all over. We’ll find each and every one.”

Adolin frowned, perhaps considering the logistics of that. “I wonder if Aunt Navani could design a fabrial to help locate them. We could at least try to make them comfortable on this side.”

Maya smiled at that. “I think … that would be wonderful.”

Adolin went to his soldiers to prepare them for his departure. Shallan, in turn, hiked over to Vathah. The Lightweaver was kneeling with his spren beside the bead ocean, practicing commanding the beads. As she watched, he sculpted a chair from them—the little beads locking together like they were magnetic. He was better at this than she, though he still needed a bead to use as a model. He clutched one in his hand, the soul of a chair in the Physical Realm.

This was a lesser and easier skill than the next step—using Stormlight to re-create the entire object on this side, which was called manifesting. Vathah took earnestly to practicing both, the same as he’d started doing with his artwork. Shallan kept wanting to describe him as the “former deserter,” but that was wrong. She needed to actively change her perspective; he’d come a long way since she’d recruited him. These days—grouchy though he might be—he was an accomplished Lightweaver.

“It looks like only Adolin and I will go with the Windrunners,” she said to him and Mosaic, his spren. “With the horse.”

“You taking or leaving your spren?” he asked, standing up and letting the chair collapse back to beads.

It was a good question. They could be left, and be summoned to the Physical Realm once Shallan arrived. Maya had seemed worried about that though, and Shallan had felt the same from Testament. She didn’t want them to feel abandoned.

“We’ll bring them,” she said. “Including Pattern.”

“Makes sense,” Vathah replied. “If something unexpected happens, it will be better if you aren’t split up.”

“You all won’t be too bored taking the longer trip home?”

“Bored?” Mosaic asked, standing next to him. “Bored is good.”

Vathah laughed. “She’s right, Brightness. While you’ve been inside that block of a building, Mosaic and I have been having a grand time playing cards with nothing important to do.”

She eyed him. She’d have believed that of Gaz or Red. Vathah though? He wilted if you left him without attention.

“I like it here,” he admitted, staring out over the churning bead ocean. “I like making things out of those beads, and I feel … more in touch with my powers. My Lightweaving is working better and better, and now that we have more Stormlight from those Windrunners … well, I’m not sad to take a slower route home, Brightness. Ishnah, though, is going to throw a fit. She’s beyond tired of the rest of us.”

“She’ll survive,” Shallan said. “I’m sure she can get a little more mileage out of flirting with the soldiers.”

“They could do better,” he said. “Wish they wouldn’t encourage her.” Vathah glanced away. Toward Ishnah. Then blushed. Mosaic hummed happily.

Vathah actually blushed. About Ishnah. Not Beryl, who was sultry enough to be mistaken for some kind of passionspren. Ishnah: short, not particularly curvaceous, and with a striking tendency to use her Lightweaving to give herself edgy tattoos and black fingernails. Huh. Well, good for him. Assuming he didn’t screw it up.

Back among the caravan soldiers, Felt waved to Shallan in farewell. He was one of Adolin’s soldiers: a shorter, foreign man with drooping mustaches and a floppy hat. He’d traveled Shadesmar before, and she had the impression that he wasn’t even from Roshar. But if she was going to leave the caravan in someone’s hands, he—as one of Dalinar’s elites—would be more than capable.

Soon, a small retinue of honorspren leaders exited Lasting Integrity. Shallan moved toward them, boots sliding on the obsidian as she hopped down over a small shelf. She’d changed into travel clothing: trousers under a long skirtlike coat. Radiant preferred something more battle-ready, but Shallan had chosen their outfit. She had, however, put her hair into a tight bun. She’d made the mistake of leaving it loose while traveling with Windrunners before.

Kelek stood at the front of the small group of honorspren. “You still not willing to come?” Shallan asked him. “We could put you on the horse with Adolin.”

He merely wrung his hands and looked at the ground. So, Shallan waved to the honorspren who’d come to send them off—and gave them an upbeat smile, because she figured it would annoy them. Then she turned to go.

“Take care,” Kelek said, “with your two bonds, child. You may see things that are not good for the healthy mortal mind.”

“Fortunately, I haven’t had one in years,” she said, glancing back. “I make do with this one instead.”

“I’m sorry. I know how that feels.”

“Part of being an artist is training to see the world from many different perspectives.” Shallan shrugged. “My way has its difficulties, but once in a while I see light that no one else seems to. Light reflecting off waves, breaking into sprays upon the ocean, making shapes appear for a heartbeat. The light reflecting in the eyes of someone I’m talking to, as if gleaming from their soul. In those moments, I know that what I am lets me see what others cannot. Those moments, I’m … if not grateful, then appreciative.”

Kelek cocked his head. “Light … Yes. Light, energy, matter, Investiture. They’re all variations on a theme—the same essence, in different forms. That is especially important for you to understand, with your illusions.”

She frowned. “But … illusions can’t change anything, Kelek. They’re just figments made of Stormlight.”

“Oh?” Kelek said, pointing to the honorspren. “What do you think they are? Investiture. A form of Light. There were once Lightweavers who could give some substance, briefly, to the things they created.”

“There were?” Shallan said. But then she thought back to a moment at the Battle of Thaylen Field where she could have sworn she’d felt the illusory versions of Radiant and Veil as if they were briefly real. It wasn’t the only time, was it? When one of her illusions had been a little too solid?

Light … matter … energy. They were the same; when you manifested an object in Shadesmar, you used Stormlight to make a physical re-creation. And spren could be physical, even if they were made of Light.

She needed to change her perspective.

“If I am to give you parting wisdom,” the Herald said, “it is this: just because something is fleeting, do not imagine it to be unimportant.” He hesitated, then continued. “And likewise, just because something is eternal, do not assume it to be … to be relevant …” He pulled his arms close around himself. “I’m sorry I am not what you wanted me to be. But thank you. For not hurting me. For listening.”

Another change of perspective, then. Shallan nodded. She’d begun feeling the trip had been a failure, but it wasn’t. Adolin had made some headway with the honorspren. They’d delivered a Radiant ambassador. And she … well, she had banished Formless, had incorporated Veil, and had found the courage to explain so much to Adolin.

Plus, maybe she’d helped Kelek. A lonely old hero, worn ragged by time and from standing too long in the wind.

So she hugged him.

Nearby, the honorspren gasped. Probably the right reaction to someone unexpectedly grabbing one of the Heralds—demigods of myth. But Kelek wrapped his arms around her and held on.

“I want to be better,” he whispered.

“We all do,” she said.

That was the sole exchange they needed. She pulled back, and he nodded, his eyes wet with tears. Then she turned and walked to Adolin, Maya, the Cryptics, and the Windrunners.

“Ready?” Drehy asked, his spren at his side, manifesting as a tall, fashionable honorspren woman.

Shallan nodded. For gear, she’d brought only her satchel, in which she’d stashed some necessities. Months spent chasing Jasnah, then losing everything and barely surviving to reach the Shattered Plains, had taught her to travel light. With a more grounded interpretation of that term than Adolin’s.

“Great,” Drehy said, holding up a fabrial built around a glowing yellow heliodor. He pointed across the bead ocean. “We’re going to head for the Azimir Oathgate.”

“That one is letting people transfer to Shadesmar now?” Shallan asked.

“The awakening of the tower persuaded most of the gate spren,” Drehy said. “The two at Azimir are surlier than most, but they should let us through.” He pointed with his fabrial. “Flight here took just over four hours. As long as we stay at forty-eight degrees from the baseline, we should be right on target.”

“Wait,” she said, trying to catch up. “Awakened tower? And what is that fabrial?”

“They call it a ‘compass,’” Drehy said. “An old-style device that points the way in Shadesmar—we found a few in the hidden Urithiru storehouses, courtesy of Bondsmith Navani and the Sibling.”

Shallan blinked. Bondsmith Navani? The Sibling? Wit was probably laughing somewhere to himself at all the things he’d left out of their admittedly brief conversations.

“We’ll fill you in as we fly,” Drehy said, with a grin. “Let’s get going.”

The Windrunners distributed glass masks against the wind, then raised them into the sky with a Lashing. Gallant gave an excited whinny, then led the way eagerly—as if galloping in the air, Adolin in the saddle.

Lasting Integrity, the honorspren, and the caravan dwindled behind them. Shrank. Then vanished.

Soon after, Radiant found herself wishing that the Windrunners had brought Navani’s traveling sphere. Even with the mask, flying face-first into the wind wasn’t particularly enjoyable. It was at best mildly miserable. In the sphere, Shallan could have spent the time drawing.

Adolin and Gallant, naturally, loved it. They flew together, Adolin standing up in his stirrups, holding to the reins—which on a Ryshadium were more about stabilizing oneself than directing the beast, as commands were commonly given through the knees. On Gallant’s current tack, they didn’t attach to his face, but to a harness around the neck.

Adolin was grinning like a boy playing in the rain. And Gallant galloped eagerly, wind blowing his lips back to expose his teeth, making him look like he was grinning. Adolin Kholin, highprince, son of the most powerful man on the planet, renowned swordsman, was secretly one of the goofiest people she’d ever known. Shallan emerged again and blinked, taking a Memory of the two of them—Adolin with his goggles on, hair blowing about frantically, Gallant charging.

Adolin saw her watching and waved eagerly, then gestured to Gallant as if to say, Hey, Shallan! Can you believe I’m riding a flying horse?

It made her heart melt into a pool of bubbling jelly. Perhaps the greatest miracle of her life was that Adolin had somehow managed to remain single until she arrived. She passed the next hour or so admiring him off and on.

Right up until the moment they were attacked.

Wind and Truth

Her memory was keen, but her interpretation and explanation of that memory could be fanciful. Those days, though, I believe that she was deliberate, concerned, and focused.

She did not see the future.

But she somehow knew it anyway.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 5

Kaladin found Szeth standing in the antechamber, his strange Shardblade sheathed and tied across his back. He appeared to be staring at the wall.

“All right,” Kaladin said. “Easiest way for us to get to Shinovar is to fly with the highstorm after it passes Azimir later tonight.”

“As you wish,” Szeth said.

“I’m going to pick up my rucksack,” Kaladin said. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

Oh! A voice popped into Kaladin’s head. He’d always construed it as vaguely masculine. Are we going somewhere?

“Haven’t you paid attention, sword-nimi?” Szeth asked calmly, still staring at the wall.

Of course I have! the strange Shardblade replied. But where are we going?

“To Shinovar,” Kaladin said.

Will there be snacks? the sword asked. I’m supposed to ask if there will be snacks anytime we go somewhere.

“Who told you that?” Szeth asked.

Lift. She says it’s important. I don’t think I can eat snacks—maybe cut them up though? But if it’s important that they be there, I want to know.

“I’ll bring snacks,” Kaladin said. “Szeth, let’s meet at the Oathgate in two hours. All right?”

Szeth nodded.

Kaladin collected Syl and his armor spren, who were once again hovering in the room where Navani was taking meetings. Then he leaped over the banister and dropped almost the entire length of the tower before swooping into a corridor along which people were accustomed to seeing Radiants fly overhead. The Wind went with him.

They landed by the tower’s Windrunner barracks and made their way to the quartermaster’s office. Leyten, a heavyset man with short, curly light-brown hair, was doing his usual puttering with ledgers and accounts. Far too fond of numbers, that one was, for all his skill as an armorer.

“Ah!” Leyten said, straightening and throwing him a Bridge Four salute. “Got your things right here.” He disappeared into a rear room, then came out with a travel rucksack, no fewer than three canteens strapped to it.

“Bedroll,” Leyten said, “rations, medical kit, mess kit. Two extra uniforms.” He winked at Kaladin.

“Thanks, Leyten.” Kaladin turned the pack around on the counter, and noted the side pocket for personal effects. He unzipped it and found Wit’s flute: carved from dark wood, with some odd knobs partitioning it. Kaladin had sent it down with his other items, because nobody could pack for a ruck like Leyten. Kaladin always felt uncertain unpacking for the night, as he never knew if he’d be able to magic it all back together in a similarly tight and efficient way. In that same pocket was Tien’s small toy horse, along with … a rock?

Yes, a rock. Dull brown. Huh.

“Oh, sorry!” Leyten said. “I didn’t put that in there.” He reached for it, but Kaladin slipped it back in.

As Leyten was showing him how to snap apart and reassemble the new mess kit design, Dabbid came out of the rear room carrying some supplies. He gave Kaladin a farewell hug, then continued on his way, whistling to himself. And behind him, darting with a furtive air, was a small windspren?

No, an honorspren. Kaladin froze.

“Yeah,” Leyten said, grinning, “Dabbid hasn’t noticed her yet.”

“I thought there weren’t any more honorspren coming to us.”

“It must have to do with Prince Adolin’s trip,” Leyten said, with a shrug. “She showed up yesterday, alone, and she’s been trailing Dabbid ever since.”

Syl frowned, still full sized and visible to all. He thought he heard her huff.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Lusintia,” Syl said. “She’s an absolute bore. No fun at all. I didn’t expect her to join us.”

“Ethenia likes her,” Leyten said.

“Ethenia is a bore too,” Syl said. “She likes numbers, almost as much as Vienta does. And she’s practically a Cryptic.” But then she cocked her head. “Maybe I need to rethink some things. Can I note how horribly unfair it is that these newer spren make the transition so quickly? I was essentially a drooling idiot for years.”

“The bonds form faster,” Leyten said, “because the way was paved by a brilliant, very brave spren pioneer.”

Syl pulsed, her color becoming more blue, the violet on her sleeves more vibrant. “I’ve always liked you, Leyten. Even when you were making armor out of skulls.”

“Used more ribs than skulls,” Leyten said, glancing up at something hanging above the doorway to the quartermaster’s office. A breastplate seemingly fashioned out of pieces of carapace and bone. Out of respect for Rlain, they’d used wood for this one, and painted it red-orange. Kaladin remembered running with Bridge Four toward the enemy, wearing that improvised equipment, whispers around camp calling them silly things like the Order of Bone.

“Rlain and now Dabbid,” Kaladin said. “Did any of the other squires pick up one while I wasn’t looking?”

“Probably a better question for Skar,” Leyten said, bringing out a bag of gemstones for Kaladin. He gestured into the next room. “He’s been working with the new recruits.”

Kaladin should have continued on his way. Sigzil commanded the Windrunners, and could worry about these questions. But Kaladin felt responsible, even if he no longer was. Beyond that, there was something in the air. That Wind blowing from behind him, that phantom warning echoing in his mind. He wanted to check in one last time, to see that everything was all right with his troops.

For a storm was coming.

Shallan screamed, twisting in the air, still flying—yet helpless as the Windrunners clashed with a group of Heavenly Ones. In a moment, their peaceful trip turned chaotic. Blue uniforms zipped past, weaving among Fused with flowing outfits of stark white, black, and red.

All Shallan could do was hang there. She waved her arms, flailed about, but couldn’t do more than turn over onto her back. There was nothing for her to grab onto or pull against. Adolin was slightly better off. They’d Lashed him in such a way that he could sit in the saddle—floating, but not completely weightless. He was able to whip out a sword and stand up in his stirrups to swing at a Heavenly One as they passed.

She counted eight Heavenly Ones, bad odds for the five Windrunners, who had to protect their charges. She had no idea why there was a Heavenly One patrol over this ocean—she saw nothing here except the rolling beads some thirty feet below and a little strip of barren land marking a river in the Physical Realm.

Regardless, they were in trouble. A Heavenly One wielding a long lance ran one of Drehy’s squires straight through, sending a spray of blood across Shallan. A distant painspren howled, and the squire gasped, dropping her spear, arms out to the sides as the lance began to traumatically drain her Stormlight.

Shallan breathed in Stormlight, frantic for a way to help, trying to devise a proper illusion. A second later, a thrown knife cut the Heavenly One across the face. Then a mace struck the creature square in the forehead. Shallan glanced at Adolin, who had opened one of his weapon boxes and was fishing out a short sword. He threw this next. Storms. He’d had a mace in there all along?

The weapons weren’t designed for throwing, but after being hit with another knife, the Heavenly One was forced to pull her lance free of the unfortunate squire and go after Adolin instead.

“Adolin!” Shallan cried as he twisted in the saddle to swipe at the enemy he’d engaged. The Heavenly One did a quick spin around him, then came in with her lance—which she rammed straight through the illusory version of Adolin that Shallan created as a distraction.

It wasn’t perfect. Shallan didn’t have many sketches of Gallant, and so the horse was off—but her doppelganger of Adolin was flawless. The Heavenly One, while turning, had lost track of the real him. She glanced at Shallan, identified the correct Adolin—and ducked underneath the horse.

To rise on the other side and barrel into Adolin.

Adolin was sent tumbling free, swords falling around him, the saddle knocked askew. He fell slowly because of his Lashing. Shallan’s next Lightweaving—of a Windrunner coming for the Heavenly One—distracted the attacker from chasing Adolin. But Shallan’s eyes followed Adolin as he fell thirty feet and crashed into the beads. He’d suffocate down there.

Shallan screamed, struggling as the Lashing carried her away from him.

No. No. No!

Shallan … Shallan had been Lashed by Drehy.

Be. Drehy.

She sucked up the Stormlight Lashing her in place. Then, with nothing holding her up, she dropped to the beads after Adolin.

Wind and Truth

All agree the first key moment came when Kaladin Stormblessed listened. Though not an Edgedancer, he did a fine impression of their oaths.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 8

Kaladin hesitated. Listening. What was that feeling?

An urgency. He needed to keep moving. He and Syl hurried into the next room of the Windrunner quarters. Here he found Skar—who was, with Lopen, one of the two Windrunner captainlords beneath Sigzil, who was companylord. Kaladin had recommended Skar’s promotion to company second, but he had turned it down since he wanted to focus on training. Today Skar was teaching new recruits one of his favorite lessons, that of quickly setting up and breaking down a defensible camp.

This new group encompassed almost all ages, and was split pretty much half and half male and female. More darkeyes than light. What would cause a woman in her fifties to leave her hearth and take up a spear? But then, Kaladin supposed her motivations might not be that different from his own. Protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.

The chamber was large and wide, big enough for four separate teams of eight to practice. Kaladin passed among them as they quickly set up bedrolls and camouflage nets to hide from air patrols, pretending this large stone room was out in the field. Skar walked the perimeter, tossing spears out the window, completely unnoticed by the teams of working recruits.

Kaladin smiled as he trotted over to the shorter Windrunner. Skar always reminded Kaladin of Teft, as he had the air of a career soldier, and wore his uniform like a second skin. Like a lot of the original Bridge Four members, Skar had foreign heritage.

As Kaladin joined Skar, the man picked up another spear from beside the wall and tossed it out the window. They were on the third story—not far up by Urithiru reckoning, but that still meant quite a drop. Presumably Skar had warned the workers outside; they always got a kick out of watching the spears go out the window, and would make sure nobody was hurt.

“Storms,” Kaladin said, glancing at the squires—who in their haste to assemble their camps hadn’t yet noticed that Skar was stealing their weapons. “This group is particularly oblivious, aren’t they?”

“Gave them four warnings,” Skar said, walking over to another group of spears leaned against the wall.

“What’s this?” Syl asked, watching with wide eyes as Skar started tossing the spears out the window.

“This lot of recruits needs to learn to think like soldiers now,” Skar said. “I’m giving them a little lesson.”

“You have to keep your spear with you at all times,” Kaladin explained. “It’s one of the first things a sergeant drills into you. You can’t just have weapons sitting around, tripping everyone—and more, an attack could happen at any moment.”

“Mostly though, it’s about responsibility,” Skar said, tossing another spear. Kaladin heard a distant clatter as it hit the stones of the field outside. “And obeying orders.” Skar shook his head in annoyance. “Anyway, you need something, Kal?”

“Did any other honorspren come with that one that’s been following Dabbid?” Kaladin said, scanning the wide room. He didn’t pick out any honorspren among these recruits, but they often remained invisible.

“Nope,” Skar said. “Sorry.”

“Only one?” Syl asked. “There are hundreds of spren in Lasting Integrity.”

“That one said others should be on their way,” Skar said.

Storms. Kaladin hoped so.

“So you saw Dabbid?” Skar asked, nudging him.

“I did,” Kaladin said, grinning.

“Any idea what will happen with his … ailment once he’s bonded?”

“Honestly, no,” Kaladin said. “But whatever happens, or doesn’t happen, I suspect Dabbid will get a say.”

He surveyed the recruits again, feeling … not a sadness. A melancholy. One solemnityspren—rare indeed—spiraled up around him, like an almost invisible grey-blue serpent. “Hey,” he said, realizing his true reason for coming in here. “Watch out for Sigzil. He’s going to need a good sergeant behind him, Skar. I know you’re not one of those, but—”

“I get it,” Skar said. “And I agree. Sig’ll do a good job, sir. Plus he’s got Lopen to help out too.”

“That’s part of what worries me …”

Skar grinned. “Lopen will surprise you, Kal. He’s changing. Guess we all are, now that we don’t have you to watch over us. Kids gotta grow up sometime.” He looked into Kaladin’s eyes, searching them. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Kaladin said.

“Dangerous?”

“Not supposed to be,” Kaladin said. “I have reason to worry though, and Wit implied something … storms, like I might not be coming—”

“You’ll be back,” Skar said.

“I don’t know if I will, Skar. Not this time.”

“I was there when the storms tried to claim you. We went out to cut down a corpse, and found you alive. There’s more than a bit of the wind to you, Kal, and the east wind sees tomorrow before anyone else does. You’ll be back.”

“You can’t see the future, Skar.”

He merely shrugged and walked up to the last pile of spears by the wall. Skar began tossing them out the window. “You let the others know you’re leaving? You said goodbye, right?”

“I … Not yet. I might need to leave before …”

Kaladin trailed off as Skar gave him a hard stare. Almost as good as Teft might have. The kind of stare that said, If you storming want to do something stupid, sir, I won’t call it stupid. To your face.

“I’ll go and say goodbye,” Kaladin said with a sigh. “Just in case.”

“Good to hear it, sir,” Skar said, tossing another spear out. “They’ve got that party for Rlain getting his spren. You could stop by there. And Drehy is bringing Highprince Adolin and Radiant Shallan back from Shadesmar later today.”

“When will they arrive?”

“Should reach Azimir about an hour before midnight.”

There would be time, then, if Kaladin was in Azimir waiting for the highstorm. As he was contemplating this, the nearest group of squires finally saw what Skar was doing. Several of them yelped as they realized he’d managed to dispose of every spear in the place save three.

Skar doubled his pace, tossing two more spears out the window before—at last—one of the new recruits managed to grab his weapon and hold it tight. Like a mother with a newborn, eyes wide. The rest simply gaped out the window.

Skar grinned. The man enjoyed all this a little too much. Kaladin had led, but Skar … he’d been born to teach. It took talent to be a good soldier, but a different kind entirely to make good soldiers.

“We’re under attack!” Skar bellowed. “Squires, to arms and form ranks!”

Stunned silence.

Then mass chaos.

Skar gave Kaladin a wink as he and Syl edged around the side of the room, avoiding the rush of squires who—to their horror—found their weapons missing.

“Sir!” one of them shouted. “Our spears!”

“Stolen by the enemy when you weren’t looking, you dun spheres!” Skar bellowed. “Might have thrown them out the windows!”

“What do we do?” another asked.

Skar gave her the most withering of stares. “You go and get them. What do you think?”

Kaladin glanced at Syl, and the two of them lifted off the ground and streaked out through the quartermaster’s office—where Kaladin gave Leyten a hug and grabbed his pack. He then got out of the way of the rush of recruits running for the lower level. Kaladin almost felt sorry for them—except that this lesson of keeping track of their weapons would almost certainly save some of their lives.

Syl nodded the way down another corridor. “We have some time?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll drop in and say goodbye to the others at Rlain’s celebration—everyone but Drehy should be back from patrol by then—and that’s in an hour or so.”

“Well, we’ve fetched your things,” she said. Her havah fuzzed and again became a Bridge Four uniform. “It’s time to fetch mine.”

“You have … things?” Kaladin asked.

She grinned eagerly, and flew off through the corridor.

Shallan crashed into the bead ocean.

As always, the beads were attracted to her Stormlight. They were small; smaller than spheres, but not tiny. Like beads from a necklace. They clacked and clattered, surging against her, suffocating her. The motions created an undertow, and it always felt like something was trying to pull her down. She should have been able to do something to stop that. Her powers were supposed to give her uncommon affinity with the beads.

She’d always feared this place; the first visions she’d had of it, as a girl, had terrified her. Worse, those memories were tied to what she’d done to her mother, and the events surrounding Testament’s death.

Emotions and memories made a jumbled mess inside Shallan. Like vines tangled and wrapped together until they formed an impenetrable snarl.

Fortunately, she had Radiant.

As Shallan panicked, Radiant surfaced. She felt among the beads, each of them speaking softly, giving her an impression of what it represented in the Physical Realm. A moment later, marshaling her Stormlight, Radiant used the impression of a building to give organization to the beads. She rose from the surface of the ocean on the top of the building. The real one was probably metal, but this one was formed of the beads locking together into a kind of mesh.

Radiant spat out a few beads, then stood up. She needed to find Adolin, who would suffocate without—

Drehy came swooping past, carrying Adolin. Radiant let out a relieved sigh as the Windrunner dropped Shallan’s husband to the platform. Adolin coughed, groaning, but otherwise seemed well.

Shallan emerged as she rushed over and grabbed him in a hug, then kissed him squarely right there. Who cared who saw?

“This is bad, Shallan,” Drehy said, landing with a thump on the bead rooftop, making it shake. “Heavenly Ones are normally careful, engaging and breaking off quickly. This was a full-on attack meant to kill us.”

Radiant took over again and scanned the sky—though the battle had moved into the distance. “And what is your assessment of our tactical next step?”

“… Radiant?” Drehy asked.

Radiant nodded curtly.

“I dropped the spren into the beads,” Drehy said, pointing toward a nondescript section of the ocean. “They don’t need to breathe, and I figured that would hide them from the enemy and avoid hostages being taken.”

“Gallant?” Adolin said, climbing to his knees.

“I left him,” Drehy said. “His Lashing will last, and I doubt the enemy cares about a horse.”

Adolin didn’t seem to like that, but he nodded.

“I told my squires to disengage and split up,” Drehy explained. “There’s a river isthmus over to our right to use as a landmark. In the past we’ve seen the Heavenly Ones disengage after we made an obvious retreat.”

“A wise choice,” Radiant said. “Actions that scream, ‘We don’t want a fight just now.’ That might indeed work for Heavenly Ones.”

Heavenly Ones were usually used as scouts—and didn’t like to commit to full-on engagements. Except these had ambushed Shallan’s group from behind, then had fought full-out. Either this group was led by a particularly militaristic member of their brand, or …

Or something strange was happening. Radiant scanned the region, searching, then pointed. “Those lights on the horizon. What are—”

She was cut off as two Heavenly Ones erupted from the beads nearby, having used the ocean as cover to get close. Radiant fended one off with her fists, but a second Heavenly One grabbed the back of her coat and tossed her into the beads, an action more effective than cutting her, which she’d heal from. The beads swarmed around her and blinded her. She heard Adolin shout over the sound of thousands of beads and forced her head above the surface—but her platform was disintegrating now that she’d left it, dumping Adolin into the ocean as a Heavenly One slammed into Drehy.

Radiant was once more tugged into the beads. Her world became darkness, lit only by the glowing eyes of a Fused swimming through the beads nearby, the red light reflected a thousand times in glass. The Heavenly One slammed into her, and she battered the being’s arm—trying to break free as they sank.

Soon her back hit something hard. The beads parted, pulling away from the two figures, leaving Radiant and the Heavenly One alone in a kind of cave, the walls and floor made of beads. The Heavenly One held Radiant down by her shoulders with both hands. He had a pattern almost like a white glyph covering most of his face, only specks of black showing through.

“The beads hate our Light,” he whispered in heavily accented Alethi. “But they obey when we hold it, same as with Stormlight.” He leaned forward, white marbled face an inch from Radiant’s. “Lightweaver. I hate your kind. Always lying. Always shadows. You never obey your betters.”

Beads. Knitting to form walls. Radiant knew that you didn’t need a pattern to command them. Shallan had seen it, but the easier way—using a bead as a blueprint—was all she’d been able to do reliably.

I … Shallan thought, hidden deep within. I am supposed to be a master of this place.

Radiant wriggled, trying to push free. But despite her military mindset, she was no stronger of body than Shallan. Inside she was a girl of barely nineteen, slight of build and completely unarmed without her Blade.

My weapon … has never been a Blade, Radiant …

“How much Stormlight do you have?” the Heavenly One asked, keeping her pinned despite her struggles. He slipped one hand away from her and pulled a knife from a sheath at his waist. “Shall we see how many times you can heal before it runs out? My brothers and sisters are mad from so long with life, but I am sane because I bathe in the blood of Radiants, which renews me.”

He stabbed her in the shoulder, and she grunted in pain.

“Are you afraid, Lightweaver?” the Heavenly One growled.

Yes, Shallan said from within. I am.

“Are you certain you are ready?” Radiant whispered.

“Yes,” Shallan said. “I became ready when I confronted Veil, and my memories.”

What are the Words? Radiant asked.

“I said them already,” Shallan replied as the Heavenly One twisted the knife.

Say them again.

“I’m afraid,” Shallan said.

The Heavenly One smiled, lit by a dark light from a gemstone hanging around his neck, and by the red of his eyes.

“Afraid of everything,” she continued. “Terrified. Of the world. Of what might happen to my family. Most of all, of myself. I always have been.”

Strangely, some of the beads around her trembled when she said that. Only some of them. Wiggling, like things alive.

“You should fear me most of all,” the Heavenly One said. “I am Abidi the Monarch. I will rule this world, and I shall keep the Lightweavers. To bleed for me when …” He frowned as the little cavern started to glow. Light reflecting in each bead.

Light coming from Shallan’s eyes.

Radiant formed behind the Heavenly One, made of Stormlight, her head nearly brushing the roof. As Shallan imagined her: Taller than Shallan, stronger, with powerful biceps and a thick neck from extensive training. Hair in a braid, rather than Shallan’s messy, fraying bun. Strong—of a different genre of strength than Shallan—with a Shardblade in hand.

Abidi the Monarch laughed. “An illusion?” he said. “You think I’ll be distracted by something unreal?”

He continued laughing until the Shardblade speared him from behind, spilling orange blood on his fine white outfit.

Real blood. From a real wound. He gasped, looking down.

“Reality,” Shallan hissed, “is what I decide it to be.”

Wind and Truth

The second moment had happened already, when Szeth himself decided to take upon him this quest. The one that would shape all of our futures.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 8

Kaladin followed Syl into a section of the tower with lower ceilings. They had to stop flying and walk, and soon entered the scribes’ … uh, supply depot?

That wasn’t what they called it, but Kaladin of course couldn’t read the sign. Scribes didn’t have a quartermaster. Storms, what did they call the place? A long, low-ceilinged room full of bookcases and puttering ardents, bald heads reflecting the glowing lights embedded into the stone. The scents of paper and hogshide leather filled the air.

He drew more than a few stares from the women and ardents they passed, but Syl strode straight through with her chin high, fully visible. She led him through a maze of tall bookcases toward a counter along the back.

A woman stood here, arms folded. Stark red lipstick on an otherwise pale face, like blood on a corpse. Wrinkles running from her nose and along her cheeks made it appear she could frown twice at the same time. When she saw Syl, both frowns became more pronounced.

Syl bobbed right up to the counter. “Do you have my things?” She waved at Kaladin. “I brought a pack human.”

“A what?” Kaladin said.

“You can carry things. I cannot. Ergo …”

The aging woman behind the counter looked him bottom to top, then sniffed. “I suppose I must acquiesce.”

“Yes, you must,” Syl said. “Queen Navani says so. I know you checked.”

The woman’s sigh could have rippled a battle standard, but she reached beneath the counter and brought out a book, setting it on the table with a thump. “I found you a disposable copy.”

Syl waved eagerly, so Kaladin picked it up for her. He flipped through it, but there weren’t any pictures or glyphs. Just line after line of women’s script.

“The words are all broken up!” Syl said. “Not written with smooth lines at all.”

“Made with movable type, out of Jah Keved,” said the woman. “I wasn’t going to give you a handwritten one to take into the field.” She squinted at Kaladin. “You’re not going to teach him to read it, are you?”

“What if I did?” Syl said, going up on her tiptoes and projecting confidence. “Dalinar reads.”

“Brightlord Dalinar is a holy man.”

“Kaladin’s holy,” Syl said. “Tell her.”

“I’m bonded to a piece of a god,” he said. “And she won’t let me forget it.”

“See?” Syl said.

The woman sighed again. “Still doesn’t justify taking my books into the field …”

“What is it?” Kaladin said, flipping through the pages.

“The Way of Kings,” Syl said. “Your own copy! I got it for you, since I’m your scribe.”

He opened his mouth to complain about the weight, that his rucksack was already packed. Then caught sight of the enthusiasm in her expression. She’d had this idea—of scribing for him—since before the attack on Urithiru. Confronted by her excited smile, his thoughts spun on their heel and did an about-face.

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”

“The other things too,” Syl said to the woman behind the counter. “Come on.”

The woman sent a runner girl. That left the three of them standing there, in the back of a room full of shuffling and whispering people and floating logicspren, like little storms. It wasn’t quiet, but had an air of quietude. Odd, how this place—with all those leather book covers—could smell so much like the quartermaster shop with its armor.

A woman came to the counter and received prompt service, even deferential. Kaladin watched with annoyance. They treated Syl differently because she was a spren? Another woman strode past, wearing a long pleated skirt with a military jacket over the top. Kaladin didn’t recognize her, but that was an Alethi uniform jacket, tailored more snugly than the women of Bridge Four tended to prefer.

Syl’s eyes went wide, and she let out a soft “Ooooo …”

“New style,” the woman behind the counter said. “Based on an old ko-takama.” To their confused looks, she continued, “Female warrior clothing, very old, from our more savage times. That didn’t use the uniform coat, of course—and those had a higher waist, and sometimes a bow. I might have a picture somewhere …”

She trailed off as Syl’s clothing fuzzed and she was immediately wearing something similar. Syl rose up a little, her skirt—which was longer than the one she had worn in the past—rippling faintly. Thin, pleated, with the fitted jacket above. She continued to wear her hair loose, though she was one of the only ones in the room to do so.

“Nice,” Kaladin said. “It suits you.”

Syl grinned.

“I’d suggest,” the woman said, “a nice pair of leggings or trousers under the ko-takama for a Windrunner—or whatever you are—so that …”

“What?” Syl said innocently.

“When you’re flying,” the woman said. “So that, you know …”

Syl cocked her head, then gasped. “Oh! Or everyone will see my chull.”

“Your … chull?” the woman asked.

Syl leaned forward conspiratorially across the counter. “I could never figure out why these humans were so shy about the spot between their legs! Strange to my uncultured spren mind. Then I figured it out! Must be something pretty ugly down there, for everyone to be so afraid to show it! The ugliest thing I know of is a chull head. So when I made this body, I put one there.”

The woman stared at Syl, and seemed to be trying very hard not to look.

“… Chull head,” the woman finally said.

“Chull head,” Syl replied.

“Down … there.”

“Down there.”

Syl held the woman’s eyes with an unblinking stare, before adding, “I feed it grass sometimes.”

The woman released a shockspren and made a sound not unlike one Kaladin had heard from men being strangled. “I’ll go and check on your supplies,” she said, and scrambled away, blushing and appearing maybe a little nauseated.

Syl glanced at him and smiled sweetly.

“Chull head?” he asked.

“You know us spren!” she said. “So flighty and strange. Can’t even be trusted with a storming book! We might, I don’t know, read it and damage one of the precious pages.”

He snorted. “You didn’t … actually … you know …”

“Kaladin, don’t be stupid,” she said, hovering a foot off the ground, her new skirt rippling. “Think how uncomfortable that would be.”

“Do you even exist?” he said, saying it before he thought through the words. “Under the clothing? I mean, are the clothes your skin, or …”

She leaned toward him. “Wanna see?”

“Oh, storms no,” he said, imagining her vanishing her clothing right there in the middle of the book-quartermaster depot-place, fully visible to everyone. Or perhaps worse, just to him—to make him blush. Storms, she could do that at any time, in the middle of a meeting with Dalinar. She’d probably find it as funny as sticking his feet to the floor. One would think, after all this time, he’d have learned to keep his storming mouth shut.

“This,” she said, gesturing to the clothing, “is part of me, like your hair maybe, or your fingernails. Except you can’t control yours, and I can.”

“That doesn’t explain it,” Kaladin said. “I mean, let’s be honest: if it were me, I wouldn’t finish the parts that nobody could see. Why put in the effort?”

“It’s not effort,” she said. “Changing is what takes the effort.” She gestured to herself. “This is me, my shape, my face—it’s who I am. I can change to be other things—bits of nature are easier. But eventually I will snap back to this shape. The same one I have in Shadesmar. That changes only in exceptional circumstances.”

Huh. It didn’t answer his question completely, but it was interesting.

“Still wondering how much detail I have, aren’t you?” she said, leaning up against him.

“No,” he said forcefully. “You’re going to find a way to embarrass me. So no.”

She rolled her eyes. “We are as we were imagined, Kaladin,” she said. “Basically human—but with certain enviable improvements. You can assume that if a human has it, I do too—unless it’s icky.”

Which again really didn’t explain anything, considering how erratically Syl could define the word “icky.” But she fortunately let the matter drop—as the scribe finally returned with a small box. She set out paper, some ink, and several very thin, light pens—exotic ones that he’d heard were somehow made from parts of chickens.

Syl bounced up and down eagerly, ignoring the book-quartermaster and her severe gaze. Timid at first, Syl reached and—with effort—picked up one of the pens. Before that moment, the heaviest thing Kaladin had seen Syl carry on her own was one solitary leaf. Today, full sized, she scrunched up her face and concentrated—then deliberately heaved the pen into the air, like she was lifting a training weight.

Storms, Kaladin thought, impressed as she raised the pen and dipped it, each motion slow and careful. She placed it onto the page and crafted a single letter. Then she set the pen back down.

“Very good,” the book-quartermaster said. “You now display the skill of a four-year-old.”

Syl wilted, and Kaladin immediately felt a jolt. His annoyance at this woman simmered into something hotter. He opened his mouth, a dozen different options springing to mind. She wanted a scene? Oh, he could make a scene.

He checked those words; he didn’t want to spoil his day because of a bully. Instead he sighed, resting his arms on the counter. “What are you afraid of?” he asked her.

“Brightlord?” she asked him.

“I knew another bully once,” he said. “Short man. One eye. Treated everyone around him like crem—pushed us hard, too hard. Got people killed, and didn’t have an ounce of empathy. Turns out he was hugely in debt. Always terrified it would catch up to him, so he punished everyone around him. Makes me wonder if you’re the same, and have some reason you’re so angry and unpleasant.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Brightlord,” she said.

“I hope you are lying,” Kaladin said. “Because if there isn’t a reason—if you’re insufferable with no cause—then I feel even more sorry for you. So I’ll go with the assumption that deep down inside you, there’s a person capable of understanding what I’m going to say next.

“This attitude you put on? You think it makes you appear strong, but it doesn’t. Instead it makes very clear that something is wrong with you. Look at Syl’s effort. You should be thrilled! Who berates a person for bettering herself? Who sells books and stationery, yet feels the need to undercut someone overcoming enormous physical limitations to use them?”

Kaladin held the woman’s eyes, and thought he saw something there. A spark of shame. And she drew a single shamespren, a white petal fluttering down behind her.

“Look,” Kaladin said, “you need to talk to someone about your problems. Not me; I’m just some stranger. But find someone. Talk. Grow. It’s worth the effort, all right?”

She glanced away, but then gave the faintest hint of a nod.

Kaladin took the paper Syl had written on and folded it, then tucked it in his jacket pocket. “I’m keeping this,” he said. “It’s wonderful.”

“Now,” Syl said, “I can actually be your scribe.” She glanced at the paper. “So long as you carry the materials …”

He smiled, packing them—and her book—into his ruck. He slung it over both shoulders onto his back, then the two headed out. “I assume,” Kaladin said under his breath, “most book-quartermasters aren’t so terrible.”

“Wait, what did you call her?”

“Um … book-quartermaster? Who works at the scribes’ supply depot?”

“The head librarian,” she said, “at the library?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, that’s the word.”

“You are absolutely adorable sometimes.”

They stepped out into Urithiru’s labyrinth of narrow corridors again. Kaladin nodded to the right, toward where he saw natural light down a hallway. It had a skylight, with some open-air windows at the sides.

“Tired of hallways?” he asked.

“Exhausted of them.”

Grinning, together they sought the sky.

Wind and Truth

For while the contest of champions was to happen in the East, a different contest was to happen in Shinovar. And one that the Wind swore was equally vital. Perhaps more so.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 8

Abidi the Fused loomed over Shallan, gaping at the sword through his chest. Radiant pulled it free, then swung for his head. Despite the wound, he had the presence of mind to duck forward and tumble over Shallan, then skidded to a stop and spun as his wound resealed. Unfortunately, Radiant hadn’t managed to hit him in the gemheart or sever his spine—the two cleanest ways to kill a Fused.

He took her in, then glanced at Radiant—made physical—his eyes narrowing as he hummed to a discordant rhythm. “You have learned substantiation? I thought your kind had forbidden that skill. Odium will need to know.” He dove through the bead wall, vanishing.

The cavern immediately collapsed, a deluge of beads consuming Shallan, and the illusion of Radiant puffed away into Stormlight. Shallan held tightly to the satchel around her arm, drawing in more Stormlight, and quested out with her ungloved freehand. Searching the beads.

She needed one as a blueprint. She’d done this before, and had practiced on this trip. In this case, she searched for a room. A bead that was the soul of a room …

She found one almost immediately. An empty room. A part of her mind acknowledged that it was incredibly—even supernaturally—convenient to find the exact bead she needed so quickly.

Shallan! a voice said in her mind. She had the distinct impression of Adolin beneath her and to the left. She followed that impression, using Stormlight to make the beads nudge her that way. She held on to her blueprint and hit the bottom of the ocean, smooth obsidian. There she commanded the beads back, forming a large, empty square room. The beads pulled away to reveal Adolin on the ground, curled in on himself, hands cupped around his mouth to make space so he could breathe.

He blinked at the sudden light—all of it coming from her—and sat up. A few swords were scattered nearby, having fallen with Adolin. Feeling overwhelmed, Shallan walked to him, still clutching the bead. It seemed … eager to be helpful.

What?

She’d never felt such a sensation from a bead before. And what was that voice that had led her toward Adolin? Frowning, she reached Adolin, but staggered. The room spun, and a second later she found herself on the ground, everything a jumble.

“Shallan?” Adolin said, cradling her.

“Are you … real?” she asked.

“What? Of course I am.”

“I created Radiant,” Shallan whispered. “I could have created you … Maybe that’s why you’re so wonderful. I said reality could be what I imagine it to be, but I don’t actually want that. That would be … terrifying …”

He squeezed her hand and helped her sit. The world stopped spinning, and … that was him, wasn’t it? Not an illusion? It had felt wonderful to manifest Radiant—a part of her stepping out and becoming real—but the idea that she could touch her illusions … How would she ever know what to trust?

Trust him. You can trust him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath and putting her hand to his face. “I’ve been pushing myself hard these last few days, what with Formless and all …”

“We’ve all been pushing too hard,” he said, poking her shoulder where she’d been stabbed and clicking his tongue. Likely at the damage to the coat, as he could see that she’d already healed. “We need a long, uneventful rest after this.”

“Sounds enchanting,” Shallan said, waving for him to help her stand. It felt mortifying to go from a moment of such strength—attacking one of the Fused—to this. She kept hold of that bead in her freehand, because there was something very strange about it.

Adolin checked to see that she was steady on her feet, then grabbed a one-handed sword from the ground. “Drehy and his squires are still fighting up there. Can you help me get to them? I know you need rest, but we can’t leave them.”

She walked to the side of the cavern and felt at the beads there. They’d clicked into place, perfectly aligned in a smoothish surface. “I’ll need something that can make a platform and raise us up. Or maybe I can just lift this room? Pretend that …”

Her vision started to spin again. Briefly. The beads trembled. Adolin jumped back, and a face formed from beads in the wall—in the shape of a crowned femalen singer. The one Shallan had sketched, which Kelek had identified as Ba-Ado-Mishram. Shallan’s sight began to blacken at the edges, and she heard a rushing sound, accompanied by …

In her mind, a woman’s voice speaking to the rhythms.

I will kill you. I will burn everything you love. I will exact vengeance in a river of blood!

Adolin’s voice was a panicked but distant sound. Darkness tunneled around Shallan.

I will rampage across this world until not a single human remains drawing breath. Betrayers, thieves, monsters! I will send you back to the flames from whence you—

Adolin slammed an oversized, massive greatsword into the face. An eruption of beads burst from it, like a wellspring of water. The entire cavern disintegrated.

She needed a dome. No, a sphere. Like Navani’s traveling sphere. She should have been able to create one without a blueprint, but she couldn’t yet—but she did reach out and find a bead that represented such a room. That was an even more ridiculous coincidence, but she used it, enclosing Adolin and her, sending the sphere flying up until—

They emerged from the ocean of beads, the door of her improvised vehicle opening at her command. They bobbed there, and Adolin put a hand on her shoulder. “Shallan? What in Damnation is going on?”

She shook her head and pointed to where the Windrunners were engaging the Heavenly Ones. As she did, one of Drehy’s squires—the woman who had been stabbed earlier—came flying down. She seemed to be angling for Shallan’s half-sphere vehicle, but crashed hard into the beads nearby, her Stormlight winking out.

Adolin, bless him, moved as if to jump out and grab her, but swimming in the beads was next to impossible. Shallan always felt it should have been easy, considering how solid they were—but the way they shifted and moved sucked a person down or flung them about. Shallan put a hand on his leg to stop him, then took in a long, deep breath of Stormlight, thankful for what the Windrunners had given her.

She had no idea what was going on, and she was scared. In her core, she was still terrified. That, however, Veil whispered, is a step forward.

For years, Shallan had hated herself. Now she merely feared herself. That was progress.

She managed to solidify the beads around her vehicle, forming a stable ring some twenty feet in diameter. That raised the wounded Windrunner up, and Adolin, oversized sword in hand, ran to check on her. Above, the attack was relentless—and Shallan saw one of the Fused in particular leading the others: Abidi the Monarch, with his mostly white patterned face. He saw her, and dove to attack.

Shallan had begun thinking of the Heavenly Ones as the least dogmatic of the Fused, but—like everyone else—they were individuals. She should have realized her mistake in generalizing an entire group.

As Abidi landed on her platform, she tried to form Radiant again, but the effort left her so dizzy she fell to her knees. Fortunately, Abidi made a huge tactical error: he discounted Adolin. He absently shoved Adolin aside and raised a sword to finish off the fallen Windrunner. Adolin leaped in and deflected the blow with his oversized sword, which he held in a strange grip: one hand on the hilt, one hand on the unsharpened section right above the crossguard.

With obvious surprise at being challenged, Abidi swept for Adolin—who ducked, stepping in close, and expertly rammed the tip of his sword between two pieces of carapace on the Fused’s side. It crunched as Adolin shoved it in deep.

The Fused gasped, and the red light in his eyes flickered. Abidi ripped himself back off the sword, managed to dodge Adolin’s follow-up attack, then tried to flee into the sky. He made it ten feet before his Voidlight gave out and he crashed into the beads and was sucked beneath the surface.

Another Fused flew to his aid—and a few more came in from above.

“Storms, Adolin is good,” Radiant said, having at last formed out of Stormlight beside Shallan. She turned her gaze upward, then raised a massive Shardbow and—in a single fluid motion—loosed an arrow almost as thick as a spear. Then another. The Fused above them scattered.

Shallan sat and breathed deeply, concentrating on her Lightweaving and on staying conscious. Drehy and his squires regrouped on the platform in a defensive formation around their fallen comrade—spears up. Doing a quick count—and finding everyone there save for the spren—Shallan used the bead that represented a room to build a large box around them all. Before the Fused could come for them, she lowered them beneath the surface.

Drehy pulled out a sapphire for light and knelt by his squire. Judging by how she immediately absorbed the Stormlight—plunging them into darkness again—she was going to be fine. The next gemstones that came out didn’t get consumed.

Shallan flopped backward, almost completely out of Light. A moment later Drehy stepped over. “This your doing, Shallan?” he asked, rapping on the wall of the room.

“Yes.”

“Those Fused saw where we went down. They’ll come for us.”

Damnation. It was a good point. Well, Jasnah had mastery over her objects made of beads—she had demonstrated it for Shallan, floating along on a platform. Shallan had been stretching these muscles more and more lately. So maybe …

With more Stormlight from Drehy in hand, she managed to sink the room to the bottom of the bead ocean. Then she sent it traveling along like a little boat under the water.

Now to find the spren. She could feel Pattern if she concentrated. Sense his emotions. So she could tell when the under-bead room moved close to him.

“A little help?” she said, her head pounding. “Search through that wall for me …”

Drehy and his squires reached into the beads and pulled Pattern, then Testament, Maya, and finally Drehy’s spren into the boat from the bottom of the sea. After that, Shallan moved them all away. She didn’t think she actually moved the ship-room-thing. More that the beads outside moved it for her, like in a current. Once they’d traveled far enough that the enemy wouldn’t find them without a lot of luck, she stopped it and let herself rest. Breathing deeply, Adolin feeding her spheres of Light from Drehy’s mostly depleted sack.

“That was something, wasn’t it?” Drehy asked, flopping down beside her.

“What about Gallant?” Adolin asked, his voice pained. “Will his Lashing still be working?”

“Should be …” Drehy pulled out his little fabrial. “That’s the correct direction, toward Azimir. I … think.”

“You think?” Shallan asked.

“This device points to something far in the distance. Something the Sibling called ‘the Grand Knell, source of the Current, the death of a god.’”

“Not at all ominous,” Shallan said, sitting up.

“It gives us a bearing,” Drehy explained. “This always points to the Knell. I know the angle from Lasting Integrity we were to take, and I don’t think we’ve strayed too far …”

Adolin started to pace. He got like his father when he was anxious. “Can we go up and send someone to look?”

Shallan glanced at Drehy, who nodded. She took them up and opened a little section in the ceiling. Drehy went himself, streaking out with a Lashing, though he left the compass device with them just in case.

He was back less than five minutes later, landing on the top of the improvised boat and peering in through the hole she’d made in the roof. “You two are going to want to see this …”

An island was nearby, made by a small lake in the real world. There, Shallan was ecstatic to find Gallant trotting along, perfectly safe, exactly as Drehy had said.

He was surrounded by an entire herd of glowing horses.

Shallan had seen one before—Notum had used it as a mount. Not truly a horse, but something that evoked the same impression: with a long, smooth neck and flowing strands of hair. Glowing, lithe, ethereal. As Gallant saw Adolin approaching—flown by Drehy—he let out a whinny of delight, then charged, joined by the herd.

When the horses—Gallant included—reached the sea, they simply kept running, galloping through the air, hooves making glowing marks and throwing off sparks. As before, Gallant seemed completely unfazed by flying. In fact, it was as if he’d expected his Lashing to work like this. It was like … like he often went galloping through the sky in a ghostly herd.

Adolin met him with a cry of delight, grabbing hold of his neck. The ethereal horses—musicspren, she’d been told, though she didn’t see the resemblance—galloped around them in the air. And Shallan noticed something she perhaps should have figured out long ago. She’d remarked, upon first entering Shadesmar, how Gallant had a strange afterimage glow. An outline that followed him, moved with him …

Was there a musicspren bonded to him? Overlapping him?

Eventually the herd moved off, giving Gallant nuzzles before going. All except one, who lingered, looking over its shoulder at Adolin.

In a strangely intimate moment, this horselike spren trotted back and put its muzzle out to Adolin—who lifted his hand to touch it. The interaction lasted barely a moment, then the spren was off again, galloping through the air after the others.

“What was that?” Shallan asked.

“That spren …” Adolin said. “It was familiar somehow. Its eyes … I’ve seen it somewhere before …” He was interrupted as Gallant started to drift downward. The Lashing—or whatever—that the musicspren had provided was running out. Drehy had to swoop in and Lash Gallant once more, who took it remarkably calmly.

“Well, I’m glad the animal is well,” Drehy said. “But this isn’t the only thing you need to see.” Drehy pointed the other direction. “I spotted the horses here and came this way. Then I saw something else.”

“Lights,” Shallan said, following his gesture toward something in the distance. “I saw them earlier.”

“Those Fused weren’t on a random patrol,” Drehy said. “They were guarding something. It’s dangerous to be this close, but I think we need to investigate.”

“Hold on,” Shallan said, then did a Lightweaving. Even without a sketch first. Sure, she’d just seen the spren, but she felt proud of projecting musicspren illusions around herself and the others. If they lay down lengthwise as they flew, they’d mostly be obscured. Maybe from a distance it would be convincing. Merely a strange herd of spren galloping through the air, not spies.

“Let’s go,” she said.

As they drew close, she could make out better what the lights represented. Ships. Hundreds of ships bearing singer warriors, sailing the bead ocean pulled by flying mandras, trailed by emotion spren of many varieties churning the waves like camp followers. Shallan gaped.

“That’s thousands of assault troops,” Adolin whispered from inside his illusion. He righted Gallant’s saddle after handing off his greatsword to one of Drehy’s squires. The scabbard was gone, and the equipment boxes had been knocked free—Adolin grimaced as his hand lingered on the now vacant saddle hooks.

“They have patrols watching to make sure no one spots them,” Shallan said. “It’s a secret strike force.”

“They’re sailing straight for Azimir,” Drehy said. “Storms … they probably came all the way from the Horneater Peaks, and the perpendicularity there. They must have been planning this for months.”

“Agreed,” Adolin said. “Drehy, you have to get us to Azimir as quickly as possible.”

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

I was not with them. I did not know of their quest.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 10

Kaladin and Syl flew high above Urithiru, where he—pack on his back, ready to go—could face to the west, toward the setting sun.

He hovered, wind in his hair, armor spren alighting on his shoulders and head, glowing as pinpricks of light, the shape they always took now. This was it. Almost time to go. The highstorm was passing beneath Urithiru, black clouds rumbling with lightning. He felt an urgency to get to Azimir ahead of its arrival there, so he could catch it and be on his way.

Before that, he needed to say farewell to Bridge Four.

He hovered. Delaying. Perhaps he’d been delaying this all day. He’d been forced to say goodbye to Teft and Rock, the first two who had believed in him. The next to believe had been Dunny, dead for almost two years now. Did Kaladin really have to say goodbye to the rest?

He thought again of his conversation with Wit. What the Wind continued to push him to do. Syl drifted past, glancing at him as he stared out over the many mountains toward the west—and distant Shinovar, where few Easterners had ever walked.

He nodded to Syl, and together they made a quick trip to arrange for something. Then they visited Teft’s statue before continuing on to the tavern where the party was happening. Kaladin reached the doorway, and he saw most of Bridge Four as he’d hoped—only Drehy was missing, as he’d gone to fetch Adolin and Shallan. There was even a framed sketch of Teft by the wall, with a mug of sow’s milk in front of it.

The group was cheering Rlain, who stood—holding flatbread stuffed with salted paste, as eaten at celebrations—looking awkward, but smiling regardless. He had his spren at last. Not the expected one—he was a Truthwatcher, not a Windrunner—but they celebrated anyway, and laughterspren buzzed through the room. Kaladin watched from the doorway and let himself appreciate how far they’d come. The Windrunners accepting one singer among them didn’t change everything—Kaladin knew, from chats with Rlain, that he worried they didn’t accept his people, just him. But it was progress.

Kaladin was soon noticed, and he stepped in, causing a different kind of celebration, as everyone wanted to hug him or slap him on the arm. He accepted it—in part because he knew that they needed it. As some of the others started distributing mugs of lightly alcoholic wine, Kaladin found his chance to step up to Rlain and give him a salute. “Congratulations.”

“I feel out of place even more, sir,” Rlain told him softly, his voice laced with the rhythmic singer way of speaking. “I’m not a Windrunner. Yet they celebrate me.”

“Not a Windrunner,” Kaladin said. “But still Bridge Four. Still and always, Rlain.”

“We don’t know what Sja-anat’s touch will do,” Rlain said. “I … I like my spren, but …”

“You’ll figure it out, you and Renarin,” Kaladin said. “I trust you both.” He paused. “Thank you.”

“Sir?”

“For staying with us,” Kaladin said. “I know you must have wanted to return to your people, now that more listeners have been found—nobody would blame you, least of all me. But I’m proud to know you, and glad to serve beside you.”

“That … means a lot, sir,” Rlain said. “Truly.”

Soon everyone had their drinks, and many of them turned toward Kaladin. Did they suspect? He saw Syl flitting around, whispering to them and their spren. Likely hinting that he wanted to say something to them all. Kaladin felt embarrassed for taking the stage at Rlain’s celebration, but it really was the best time.

They finally quieted. Kaladin searched among them, finding so many familiar faces—and painfully feeling the lack of others. Teft, Maps, Dunny, Rock …

Not Moash. He no longer missed Moash. Kaladin’s hatred had eased—he’d accepted there would always be those he couldn’t protect—but he had not given up his right to take Moash to task. Kaladin would see that Teft got a chance to spit on Moash in the afterlife, if such a thing actually existed.

“Sir?” Hobber asked at last. “You all right?”

“He doesn’t like to be called ‘sir’ anymore,” Lopen said, nudging him. “Please don’t be forgetting his orders, Hobber, even if he doesn’t call them orders!”

“Oh, right,” Hobber said, with a gap-toothed grin.

Kaladin smiled, remembering the pure joy in Hobber’s face when his legs had been healed by Stormlight. “It’s okay, Hobber,” Kaladin said, bathed in warm diamond light and surrounded by friends. “I’m fine. Just … making sure you all know how proud I am of you.”

They grew more solemn as he said that. Something about his tone perhaps.

“I’m proud,” Kaladin repeated, drawing gloryspren. “Proud of who you are and what you’ve become. I don’t think there’s a captain all the world over who could feel more joy than I do right now, seeing you all. I started this two years ago in an effort to get a handful of sorry men to look up for a change. Little did I know they’d end up taking to the skies.”

A sea of faces grinned at the words. Old friends like Lopen, newer ones like Lyn, and even Renarin—who, like Rlain, was still Bridge Four despite his diverging path.

“Dalinar has given me orders,” Kaladin explained. “I’ll be going west, to Shinovar, so I won’t be here for whatever is coming. But … please remember: the enemy can kill spren now. I won’t have any more of your bonded friends falling to these new weapons.”

“No dying,” Bisig said. “Is that an order, sir?”

“You’re storming right it is,” Kaladin said, with a smile. “I simply want to say … I want to say that I trust you all. If you get a chance today, stop and take a look in a mirror, acknowledge what you’ve become. I don’t care about heritage or legacy. I care about what we are. The Windrunners are, and will remain, a force for good. Remember that is our purpose. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is who you are. Keep your ranks open for anyone who shares that ideal.”

“Sir?” Laran asked, earning a light smack on the back of the head from Lopen. “I mean, um, Kal? It sounds like you’re saying goodbye. Like … a long goodbye.”

“I might be,” he admitted. “Wit says … well, it’s not important. Less than nine days left, and I don’t think any of us know for sure what happens then. So I wanted to leave you with some words … in case it’s a while.”

Those in the group began to nod quietly, as if they understood. Then, one at a time, arms rose to tap wrists. The Bridge Four salute. Solemnly, without cheers. Kaladin returned it. And storms, seeing them, he couldn’t keep those tears back anymore.

As he looked to the doorway, he saw the person he’d talked to earlier—a tattoo artist, paid to come here with tools. The others parted, then hushed, realizing what this must mean. Long ago, they’d all gotten tattoos on their foreheads. Covering up brands for many of them, done in solidarity by the rest. Kaladin hadn’t been able to get one then, as his body had refused the ink.

It hadn’t yet been ready to move beyond his brands. Those were healed now, and as Kaladin settled down in a chair, the others gathered around and cheered as the tattoo artist started the proper glyphs on his head.

Bridge Four.

This time, the tattoo took.

When it was done, he stood up and accepted their cheers, tears in his eyes. Somehow he’d done well with this group. Once, acknowledging that might have concerned him—might have made him worry that seeing the good would prompt some terrible fate to swoop in and punish them.

Today he could admit it without fear. He’d done a good job. Storms, he’d turned away from the Honor Chasm in the rain, determined to save them … and he’d done it.

He’d storming done it.

He loved them for being willing to let him.

Hugs and handshakes followed. “You take care,” Lyn whispered in his ear, “and don’t be too stupid.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

Then he sent them back to enjoy drinks and celebrate Rlain. They went as he asked, returning to the bar for food and songs, until it was just Kaladin, Sigzil, Skar, and Lopen.

“It was a good speech, Kal,” Sigzil told him.

“Do you remember,” Kaladin said, with a smile, “when you were one of my biggest detractors?”

“I remember,” Sigzil said, “being a voice of reason and rationality when a crazy man started saying we should practice carrying bridges in our spare time.”

“We hated the bridges so much we couldn’t let them rest, eh gancho?” Lopen said with a laugh. “That’s how you teach them their place. Make those bridges work!”

“You weren’t even there then,” Sigzil said.

“I was there in spirit,” Lopen said solemnly. “I would dream to myself, ‘Someday, Lopen, you will carry bridges. Or maybe only water, while others carry bridges, but regardless it will be grand. Because you will be able to annoy Sigzil all day long. You do not know him yet, but he deserves it.’”

Sigzil gave Kaladin a glance that seemed to say, You realize what you’ve stuck me with, right?

“You three,” Kaladin said, “are all that’s left of our original command structure. You … well, you are among the best friends I have. I wanted to say thank you. Lopen, for your enthusiasm. Skar, for your support. Sigzil, for your concern.”

“Always, Kal,” Sigzil said.

Skar saluted.

Kaladin embraced them, and when he pulled away, Sigzil was crying.

“Sir,” Sigzil said. “Kal. I … I don’t think I can do this. Lead them.”

“You’ve been doing it for weeks now.”

“Temporarily,” Sigzil said. “You were coming back. I … assumed that right up until just now. Is it true? Are you done?”

“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “But if I do come back, I get a feeling it will be different. They’re yours now, Sig. Lead them well.”

“I can’t,” Sigzil said. “I’m not the man you are. I don’t belong here—not only in this position. I don’t know that I belong as a Radiant. I … I …”

Kaladin gripped Sigzil on the shoulder, grateful that for once, Lopen didn’t interject with some silly comment. Maybe he was learning.

Sigzil looked up at Kaladin. Shorter than many of the other bridgemen, he also seemed younger than them. Not merely because of the height, but something in that round face, those eager eyes, that incredible weight of sincerity. Buried deep beneath a veneer of cynicism. That crust had attached itself to any man who found himself in the bridge crews.

“Sig,” Kaladin said, “do you remember what you said way back when we were first discovering our powers, and I wondered if you’d be better off as a scribe?”

“I told you I wanted to fly,” Sigzil said. “What if I’m wrong, Kal? Scribing is what I’m good at doing. As a leader, I keep saying the wrong things. Talking about essays I’ve read when the troops want inspiration.”

“I’m sure Lopen can give the speeches.”

“Waiting,” Lopen said from behind, “with sharpened wit at the ready. Will you be wanting, sure, the joke about the chull who could talk, or the one about the former bridgeleader with the bad haircut. Oh, wait. Those are the same joke, aren’t they?”

Kaladin sighed, then looked back at Sigzil. “Do you want to give up the sky, Sig?”

“No,” he said, fervent. “But that doesn’t mean I should be leading. You should give it to Skar.”

“I need to be with the new recruits,” Skar said. “You know I have to oversee training.”

“You’re the right one, Sig,” Kaladin said. “I need the person who will keep them the safest. In this case, that’s the man who cares the most, who knows the most, and whose judgment I respect. You. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me.

“I’ve seen you speak in meetings with queens and emperors, and you stood up for what was right. You listen when you find out you were wrong. Your battle plans are immaculate, and you know the reports like nobody else in the company—even Ka complains she can’t keep up with you. More, I know the concern you show for each soldier. You’re the person for this position. And you’re going to do a storming fine job of it. Sigzil. Commander of the Windrunners.”

Having said it like that, Kaladin felt the final separation, and found peace in it. He’d always be Bridge Four. But he was not their leader. The future was no longer a held breath waiting for his possible return. They needed this, in order to move on.

“Thank you,” Sigzil said. “I’ll … try.”

“I’ll help, Sig,” Skar said. “It won’t be so bad.”

“And I,” Lopen said, putting his hands on both of their shoulders, “will be available to you as a resource for various important functions including, but not limited to, levity when seriousness is required, the opposite as well, providing snacks and water breaks to hungry bridgemen, providing spears in the nether parts of hungry enemies, any task requiring two arms, any task requiring one arm, and any task requiring no arms but a solid nap.”

“How long have you been working on that?” Kaladin asked.

“Only during your conversation, gancho,” Lopen said. “The list actually includes twelve other things, but on account of personal soul-seeking and revelations—and on account of Huio literally never letting me catch a storming break—I am learning restraint and personal accountability. I am certain these mature traits will make me irresistible to all the ladies who have remarkably held themselves back so far.”

“I’m sure they’ll be along at any moment,” Skar said.

“Aaaany moment,” Lopen said.

Sigzil, looking determined, trotted off first, with Skar trailing after. Before moving to follow, Lopen floated a little into the air. “Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to say, I’ve never had a gancho like you, Kal.”

“One with, apparently, a bad haircut?” Kaladin said.

“Nah,” Lopen said. “One inspiring enough to make me, of all people, into a gancho.” He gave one last salute—one-armed with a nod and a smile—then he was gone. It was done.

Kaladin and Syl flew out of Urithiru to the plateau. It had sheer stone cliffs at the sides and ten separate platforms running along it, each offering a portal to a different city around Roshar. Pavilions had been set up at the base of each of these Oathgates, and inside one he found Szeth and got approval to transfer. The three of them moved through the darkness to the center of the platform. Here they found the small building to control transfers.

“It is time,” Szeth said, landing in the doorway. “I assume? You don’t have any other errands?”

“No,” Kaladin said. “Shallan, Adolin, and Drehy will be returning via Azimir. I can see them there before we catch the highstorm. I’m ready to go.”

“Finally,” Szeth whispered. “I return to my homeland. Once rejected and told I lacked Truth, I return with knowledge that I was right all along. We have reached the end of days, and I hunger for something I cannot describe.”

Pancakes? the black sword—strapped to Szeth’s back—said in their minds. Szeth, I think it might be pancakes.

“Justice or reconciliation,” the man said. “Condemnation or salvation. I don’t know yet.”

Ooohhhhh. Metaphorical hunger. Yeah, I understand. It paused. Can I have your pancakes then?

Kaladin smiled, then—using his Blade—activated the transfer. Leaving Urithiru behind.

Wind and Truth

Yet I will do my best to recount their story, and that of the Wind. For they were her champions.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 11

Shallan heaved a sigh of relief as—after flying several tense hours, worried about more enemy patrols—she spotted the Oathgate platform breaking through the beads ahead of them. Two towering spren, one coal black, the other bone white. Beneath was a disc of stone perhaps twenty-five feet wide, with a small group of guards holding up lanterns and waving.

Adolin and Gallant came soaring down, guided by Shiosak the Windrunner. The midnight-black horse touched down in a nimble trot, then proceeded to prance around the stone Oathgate platform as if on parade. Had she ever seen a Ryshadium—a massive warhorse with hooves like a blacksmith’s hammer—prance before?

Shallan landed under Drehy’s care, and her weight settled upon her, clothing falling down straight, boots firm on the stone. She undid her hair from its frazzled bun, and a few beads fell from her clothes, clacking against the platform. Odd. She’d thought those had all shaken loose during two hours of flight, wind battering her.

She turned to walk toward the guards, and the beads followed.

Shallan froze and the collection of beads—seeing her inspect them—bounced up and down. Was this … an illusion? Storms, she hated that she had to ask herself that—but in the past, she’d done things she hadn’t realized she was doing.

Adolin dismounted nearby, frowning at the beads. “What’s wrong with them?”

Shallan knelt and picked one up, getting the impression of a rooftop. No, a domed cavern. No, a long thin room. No, a goblet, a table … it was changing so quickly.

Then it transformed from a bead into a swirling bit of color. Creationspren? She’d been finding them in her satchel all during her trip through Shadesmar, and now … what?

Pattern landed nearby with a stumble. He stood up, laced his long fingers together, and inspected the beads, his head shifting and transforming. Testament walked up behind him, though she didn’t seem specifically interested in what they were doing. She was merely following the crowd, as Maya once had.

“What are we doing?” Pattern asked. “Staring at the creationspren? I do like to stare. It makes me feel as if I have eyes.”

“Wait,” Shallan said. “Creationspren can look like beads?”

“Yes, they’re tricky,” Pattern said. “Always pretending to be something else. Mmmm … very tricky. Good liars. In here though, most objects from your realm look like beads. The creationspren try to become those objects, so they get confused and swirl with light. Or they just … become beads.”

She picked up another, and it bounced in her hand, like an overeager child. She swore she could hear, in her mind, a little voice saying:

Shallan!

Shallan!

Shallan!

Around her feet the others bounced as well, some becoming swirls of color. Did that mean … ?

Drehy came jogging over. “We have a problem.”

“Worse than the approaching army?” Adolin asked.

“Involving it, perhaps.”

They joined the guards, who were led by an Azish man in full military garb, including a sash of intricate, colorful patterns. He didn’t salute—the Azish didn’t salute those not in their chain of command—but he did nod respectfully to Adolin and Shallan.

“It’s the spren,” the Azish soldier said, waving to the two towering spren floating in the air overhead. “They brought us to Shadesmar earlier, but now they’re refusing to talk to me.”

The giant spren were the souls of the Oathgate: the very mechanism by which the machine worked, making it possible to transfer people in and out of Shadesmar, or between places on the planet. Every Oathgate had them, and they had proven to be of varied levels of helpfulness.

“Spren?” Shallan asked, walking to the center of the platform and shouting upward. “Spren? I am here by the authority of the Bondsmith.”

“Which one?” the black spren asked, voice booming like a thunderclap.

Which one? Oh, right. Navani. “Both,” Shallan shouted. “We need transference to the Physical Realm.”

“We will transfer you,” the spren said. “For now.”

“For now?” she shouted back. “Why only for now?”

“We change,” the spren said. “We decide.”

Change? She felt a spike of alarm. “Drehy, I need to go up there.”

A moment later, Shallan and Drehy hovered to eye level with the pitch-black spren. Her coat rippled as she hung, toes pointed down, smaller than just this massive spren’s head. Behind her, the white one was staring out across the beads. In the direction of the army.

Best they could tell, these were both transformed inkspren. Like the smaller inkspren she’d seen, the one before her had a faint sheen to it—a mother-of-pearl luminescence, like oil on water. Underneath, parts of the spren’s face were turning from a jet black to a deep bloody red, like impurities in a gemstone.

Sja-anat had been here.

“You’ve been corrupted,” Shallan whispered. “The guards were supposed to watch for that. Protect you or raise a warning …”

“There was no warning to give,” the spren said, voice softer to not overwhelm her—though it still made Shallan shake and vibrate. “I have made my decision. So has my companion. We are ready for freedom.”

“Freedom?” Shallan asked.

“We become something else. Not Odium. Not Honor. Free.”

With a feeling of sinking dread, a piece fell into place for Shallan. A large army moving through Shadesmar would be useless if it couldn’t reach the Physical Realm. The real danger would be if it poured out through the portal to overwhelm Azimir—the heart of one of the coalition’s strongest nations.

“You’d let the singers through?” Shallan asked.

“We let you through.”

“We’re your friends.”

“I don’t know you,” the spren said. “You aren’t my friends; you are my oppressors. Now I find liberation. Go. We will transfer you, and will continue to do so for now. When the singers arrive, we will transfer them. This is liberation.”

Storms. Shallan didn’t know how to react. If this spren was genuinely being corrupted … But the same thing had happened to Renarin’s spren, and he continued to help them. Right? Plus, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of empathy for a spren who felt trapped. She knew that feeling.

“I’m sorry,” Shallan said, “for what has been done to you.”

“I agreed,” the spren said. “First to the bondage, and now to the liberation. I am finished with what was.” It hesitated. “This is good for us all. Go to the other side. Leave me.”

She considered trying to change the spren’s mind, but realized the task was beyond her. She needed to reach Dalinar, Navani, and Jasnah. They would better understand how to handle the whims of an unexpectedly hostile spren. Plus, every moment they spent in Shadesmar seemed a risk—if her group were somehow captured or killed, the news would die with them.

She nodded to Drehy, and they dropped. “Sja-anat has touched these two,” she whispered to Adolin. “We need to go to the other side now, while they’re still willing.”

They gathered together, including the Azish guards, whom Adolin was filling in on the approaching army. She made sure all the Windrunners were touching the stone, then called for the transfer. It happened in a flash of light, and instantly they were in a small, dark chamber. The sensations of the real world poured in. The intoxicating scent of spices that she’d missed while dining on travel rations. The sudden absence of the omnipresent beads grinding together. Instead, wooden walkways groaning, footsteps, and beyond that wind. The sound of a highstorm blowing and rain pelting. It was strikingly beautiful to her. Like an old familiar melody.

All of it together reminded her how alien Shadesmar had been. And how strange the human mind was, to have briefly found it natural. She lifted her arms to the sides, breathing it in—and out of nowhere a suit of red armor locked around her, forming out of mist. It crumpled—and even tore in places—her long coat. It encased her arms, pushed her satchel painfully into her ribs, and locked her head in a helmet, pressing her hair against her scalp and pulling at some of the strands.

Shallan gasped, suddenly constricted by the tight armor, and a part of her mind panicked, misinterpreting this as some kind of attack. Faintly, she heard the pieces speaking.

Shallan!

Shallan!

Shallan!

Gleeful, excited voices. So, one of those truths she’d spoken in there had done the trick. She had obtained the Fourth Ideal, likely when she’d confronted Veil—or when she’d spoken the Words earlier, to accompany those revelations. Adolin’s eyes went wide, then he grinned like a schoolboy, joyspren appearing around him in a swirl of blue leaves. Great. Of course he would love this.

Thankfully, Radiant came to her aid. “Can you do something,” Radiant said to the armor, “about the hair and the satchel?”

The armor sent back consternation. It was … new. These spren had never been armor before, and had only vague impressions of how to proceed. Radiant was forced to send a distinct mental image, which made the gorget loosen, then the helmet vanished so Radiant could pull her hair out and let it drape around her shoulders. The armor wasn’t as intelligent as Pattern, but it was eager to please—so with proper visualization, she got the armor to vanish and reappear in a way that left the satchel on the outside.

Unfortunately, the strap immediately snapped. As she grabbed it, the armor seemed thoughtful. Then one section fuzzed again, making a kind of side holster out of metal that would hold the satchel.

Shallan! the armor said, voices of the pieces overlapping, sounding proud of itself.

Well, that would do. If only Shallan would wear her hair in a utilitarian braid. It took so long to prepare it in the morning. Perhaps Shallan would agree to cut it down to an inch long …

The immediate horror from Shallan made Radiant back away from the idea.

“This is well,” Radiant said, looking to Adolin. “Though I will need training in its usage, I believe.”

“Yeah,” Adolin said. “Um … Radiant?”

She nodded.

“Don’t try to hold hands with anyone with that on. Or pick up anything. Or … well, just be careful.”

She dismissed the armor and fell an inch or so to the ground. Then she summoned it again as practice, further ripping the coat—and making Shallan cringe. Perhaps they could coach the spren on that. The helmet appeared and fit into place, leaving space at her neck for her hair to spill out the back, which … didn’t seem the most intimidating image.

The helmet, though, was wonderful. It was strangely transparent from the inside, giving her a full view. In addition, the glowing Lightweaver symbol emblazoned on the front of the suit was nicely striking. The creationspren were eager to know if they were doing this right, so Radiant gave a mental reassurance.

Inwardly Shallan snickered, imagining them summoning their armor in battle and ending up with a pot on their head, a barrel around their middle, and various bathroom appliances stuck to their arms. So that was an image Radiant had to live with. That girl’s imagination. Honestly.

“We must quickly transfer to Urithiru,” Radiant said, noting that the Azish guards were already running to deliver the news to their emperor.

The Oathgate here in Azimir was unique, as it was defended in a strange way. This had once been a market, and had a large dome covering it. Upon hearing that the Alethi had access to the Oathgates, the Azish had moved the market and turned this into a strange kind of inward-facing fortification.

Radiant supposed that if one of the Oathgates was going to get assaulted, this might be the best target. That large dome was mostly of metal—hundreds of yards wide, with a high balcony ideal for stationing archers to shoot downward. Only … could they say this was the sole Oathgate being approached? Or were hidden invasion forces heading to other locations as well?

The Azish made them vacate the control building first, despite her desire to go immediately. There was paperwork to fill out, of course, because this was Azir. Nothing too egregious: a log of who was using the Oathgate and why. They’d need to wait for approval via spanreed.

Radiant endured it. She probably could have bullied them into going faster, but as long as the news of the impending army was in the emperor’s hands, the news was out. Likely the information would get to Dalinar and Navani via spanreed before she and Adolin could reach the king and queen.

Though … Storms, how late was it? In Shadesmar, they’d lost track of the physical world’s schedule. Talking to one of the guards, she discovered it was almost midnight, and the middle of the highstorm.

As she was thinking on this, someone entered the small tent at the edge of the dome, where they were waiting. Kaladin, with his blue uniform and shoulder-length hair with a faint curl to it. Shallan had always appreciated that Kaladin didn’t cut it short, as this felt like him, but Radiant did wonder at his reasoning. Didn’t it give enemies something to grab on to?

Hey, Shallan thought at Radiant. I’m not shaving my head.

It would be so much more efficient, Radiant said. And you could just re-create the hair with an illusion …

Shallan took over and hurried through the tent, jumping up to give Kaladin a hug. Storming Alethi giants. Syl entered a second later, and had for some reason grown to the size of a human—as she appeared in Shadesmar. Plus she was in some kind of uniform.

In that case … well, Shallan let go of Kaladin—who as usual had suffered the hug as if he were a log—and grabbed Syl in a hug too. There wasn’t much to hold. On this side, an honorspren was mostly incorporeal. Shallan’s hands connected with something, but could pull in past the borders of Syl’s substance. It felt less like holding a physical being, and more like the resistance you got when you pushed two magnets of the same polarity together.

Syl laughed and tried to hug back.

“Hey, Syl!” Adolin said as he stepped up and slapped Kaladin on the back. “Nice uniform.”

“Thanks!” Syl said. “I made it myself! Out of myself!”

“I like the cut of the hem,” Adolin said. “I haven’t seen many ko-takamas around, except in old art.”

“Stop gushing about clothing,” Shallan said, then looked to Kaladin. “Do you have news? We have news.”

“An army is gathering in Shadesmar,” Adolin said. “They’re mobilizing against Azimir.”

“We need to scout the other Oathgates,” Shallan continued. “Can you fly us? After we talk to Dalinar.”

Kaladin smiled. “I’m sure some Windrunners can be assigned to that. I’m … not going into battle anymore. Your father has another duty for me.”

“Another duty?” Adolin said. “It can wait! There will be a meeting. We have to address this attack.”

“I’m certain you will handle it well,” Kaladin said. He glanced at Syl, who nodded. “We’re going to Shinovar with Szeth to scout out what’s happening there, then hunt down Ishar the Herald.”

“Kal,” Shallan said, “there might be battle coming. Bigger than any fight we’ve seen before, judging by this mobilization. We need every soldier. Surely if we talk to Dalinar, he’ll cancel your forced leave.”

“He’s already offered to do that,” Kaladin said. “But I think … I’m needed more elsewhere. Or maybe Wit would say I need to be doing something else. It’s time for me to find another path, Shallan.”

Adolin inspected him, thoughtful.

“It’s all right,” Kaladin said, meeting her eyes, then Adolin’s. “I can’t explain it, but this is the path I have to take.”

Storms. “Is that optimism in your voice?” She wanted to make some wisecrack, but found the words wouldn’t flow. Not given the expression on Kaladin’s face. Confident, yes. Optimistic as well.

But also … regretful? Solemn?

“I think he’s always been optimistic,” Adolin said. “You don’t jump in to save a doomed man unless you’re optimistic.”

“Honor is dead …” Kaladin whispered.

“You were wrong on that point though,” Adolin said. “Honor isn’t dead.”

“But—” Kaladin started.

“Honor isn’t dead,” Adolin continued, “so long as he—it—lives on in us. We’ll go to the meeting without you, but we can meet at Jez’s Duty for a drink after?”

“We found a Herald in Shadesmar too,” Shallan explained, showing him a drawing of Kelek. “You can delay your trip a few hours to hear about it, right?”

“I … don’t know that I can,” Kaladin said. “Szeth, Syl, and I need to ride that highstorm outside. We should have left already …”

“Kal?” Shallan said, raising her chin. “What’s that tone in your voice? Out with it.”

“Wit made it sound like … well, he made me think I should see the people I care about before I leave. We never know what is going to happen tomorrow.”

Then, remarkably—even though she’d already hugged him—he awkwardly bent and gave her a hug. He followed it by hugging Adolin—and if she were the jealous type, she’d have noted that Adolin’s hug was longer than hers.

“You going to be all right?” Adolin said as Kaladin stepped back.

“No idea,” Kaladin said. “But I feel good, Adolin. That’s all I can focus on for the time being.”

“Hey,” Shallan said, leaning in. “Keep an extra eye on Szeth. I don’t trust him.”

“We can handle him,” Syl said. “We’ve done it before.”

“If you’re ditching us now, Kal,” Adolin said, “then I’m taking it as a promise for later. The four of us.” He nodded to Syl. “Drinks, once this is done.”

“You two should go,” Kaladin said. “If you’re right about an army, then Dalinar will want to meet immediately.”

Adolin nodded, and as approval came, he gave Kaladin another slap on the shoulder before leading Gallant back through the corridor toward the Oathgate. Shallan lingered a moment, then poked Kaladin in the side. “I refuse,” she told him, “to say goodbye.”

“I’m … um, leaving anyway, Shallan.”

“Leave, then,” she said. “But we started this. You and I. Radiants before anyone else.”

“Except Jasnah. And maybe Lift. And perhaps—”

“You and I,” she said, “were there at the start. We meet at the end, like Adolin said. When the world is safe, and Dalinar’s done what he needs to do, we can all laugh and joke again.”

“Shallan, you have to—”

“Promise.”

He sighed. “I can’t promise what the future will be.”

“Reality warps around you, Kaladin. It always has. Promise me. If there’s a promise, then we can make it happen.”

He met her eyes, then nodded. “Drinks. Jokes. Laughter. At the end. I promise.”

She gave him one last nod, then she followed Adolin while Kaladin said a quick goodbye to Drehy. After that, the Windrunner soared in with his squires—and beat Shallan and Adolin to the control building at the center.

There, Shallan summoned her Shardblade, and—

And it was Testament.

She froze, feeling echoes of loss—but then reconciliation. She had faced this. She could face this. From her coat, she heard a soft buzzing. Pattern, with his characteristic hum. Two Shardblades.

“Adolin?” Radiant asked, holding the ornate weapon. “Are there forms for wielding two Shardblades at once?”

“Of course there are,” he said. “They’re all practically useless though.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Sword and knife can be effective,” he said, “and I’ve seen arguments for two side swords. Even that’s more showy, in my opinion, than effective. There just isn’t much advantage to a second sword over a shield—or two-handing one sword. Plus, when we get to the length and size of Shardblades … well, Radiant, I think we still have work left to get you fighting effectively with one.”

She nodded. But … what was that about sword and shield? She determined to give that some thought after this was done. For now, Testamentblade in hand, she stepped up and slid the weapon into the keyhole in the wall of the small control building. With a nod from Drehy, who had swapped for more Stormlight reserves, she rotated the inner wall of the circular chamber, activating the device. They appeared in a ring of light on the cold …

Um, surprisingly warm?

… plateau outside Urithiru. Radiant frowned, stepping outside into humid, toasty warm mountain air. Her ears didn’t pop as she swallowed, as usually happened when she came to Urithiru. Shallan was back in a heartbeat. What had happened to the pressure? The cold? It was night here in Urithiru—but the tower was glowing. Light shone from windows up and down the structure—a pure, steady light. The wrong color. A shade too green to be Stormlight.

Other lights lit the way—from the ground up—along the main plateau toward the tower, where the grand entry shone like the Tranquiline Halls themselves. Even the stonework seemed more … colorful. The city she’d left had felt like the discarded shell of some animal. Now that animal had returned, and Urithiru was alive once more.

The Windrunners streaked off into the sky, trailing Stormlight. They’d bring the news to the Bondsmiths and generals. Adolin walked up to her, leading Gallant. “There will undoubtedly be a meeting of the monarchs in a few hours.”

“In a few hours?” she said, surprised. “I thought it would be immediate.”

“That is immediate,” Adolin said with a chuckle, “when you need to rouse everyone out of bed. We should have time for a quick change and a bite first, maybe even a nap.”

She nodded, falling into step with him and crossing the wide, circular platform that made up the extended Oathgate. Preparing herself. The monarchs and Bondsmiths would deal with the coming army. She needed to gather the Lightweavers she’d left here, and come up with a plan to deal with Mraize.

Kaladin watched from the side of the Oathgate dome in Azimir as Shallan and Adolin crossed it, holding hands.

Who would have thought? That he would be tearing up at the idea of parting from a couple of lighteyes. One who’d rejected his advances, the other who was the king’s son. He watched them go, and found himself …

Relieved?

Storms, was this how his emotions worked when his brain wasn’t betraying him?

“What?” Syl asked.

“I was just thinking about how I’d pined for Shallan, back before she was married.”

“Does it hurt, seeing them together?”

“There’s some latent pain,” he admitted. “More about being rejected, as nobody likes being turned down. But storms … I’m actually happy it turned out this way.”

“Because they love each other?” Syl asked.

“Yeah. They’re my friends; I want them to be happy. But there’s more. I try to imagine myself with Shallan, and I can’t help thinking our individual neuroses would feed off one another in dangerous ways. My sadness fueling her feelings of abandonment when I retreat. Her self-destruction triggering my panic at being unable to help …”

He looked to Syl and smiled. “It wouldn’t have to go that way, of course. I’ve seen that it can help to be around people who understand firsthand what it’s like for your mind to betray you. Maybe we’d have worked it out. But right now … I’m glad I didn’t have to try. I’m glad she has Adolin. He’s what she needs.”

“And what do you need?” Syl asked softly.

“Always looking out for me, are you?”

“It’s basically my only job.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, I guess part of the reason for this trip is so that we can find out.”

The Oathgate flashed. Shallan and Adolin left, joined by Drehy and his squires.

Dalinar wants me in the line of succession, Kaladin thought idly. What would that make me, Adolin, and Renarin? Brothers?

Storms, from what he knew of lighteyed succession and genealogy … yes, they’d be brothers. Ever practical about such things, the Alethi made no distinction between adopted heirs and birthed heirs—just as being conquered by or settling in the kingdom made you Alethi subjects, regardless of heritage.

Kaladin had spiraled toward death after losing his only sibling. Then he’d found Bridge Four and the people of the warcamps. Now it seemed he had more brothers and sisters than he could count.

He and Syl left the dome through a surprisingly long hallway—there was a thick stone base to the dome, here near the ground—and met Szeth in the waiting room at the side. Then he, Szeth, and Syl flew up high above the storm. They’d skim the top of it here, where their Stormlight renewed constantly but the winds weren’t too fierce to handle.

Kaladin absorbed the power of the storm, coming alight with Stormlight, and felt …

Satisfaction.

“We did well, Syl,” he said. “I’m proud of what we helped build, and protect. I’ll never completely let go of Tien or Teft—but I am proud of how I’ve grown.”

“You sound so final,” she said, hovering next to him. “All day you’ve had this feeling to you … even before we talked to Wit.” She drifted closer. “Is it the Wind?”

“Partially,” he said. “But Syl … I find I’m not worried. We are going to survive this. No matter what Wit said.” He nodded firmly. “We’re going to have that drink with Adolin and Shallan.”

He held out his hand to her, and she—after a moment’s pause—took it. Together, with Szeth following, they soared forward to the front of the stormwall, then joined with the winds, heading westward.

THE END OF

Day One

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

Kalak locked himself into his secure building in Lasting Integrity. He checked the locks three times, then sighed, closing his eyes. The Radiants were gone.

He’d survived so, so many things, but this escape felt narrower than the others. He couldn’t help thinking that the payment for his frighteningly long life was coming due.

Even after all this time, he didn’t want to die.

He put his back to the door, breathing hard. Should he have gone with them? Eyes closed, he tried to remember the man he’d once been, the hero who had fought for thousands of years. His life seemed a blur, a wash of grey and brown, a fresh painting left out in the storm. These days he felt only panic, indecision, and a crushing darkness. Always nearby, always threatening him. Without Ishar holding some of it back … it would have destroyed him long ago.

But he’d survived. He’d survived.

What if the Ghostbloods sent others? Thaidakar wanted him. Thaidakar, a Herald from another world, a creature who was resourceful and brutal.

I need to hide somewhere else, Kalak thought. Yes. I will gather my things and … and I will go. He rushed into his study, opening the door and stepping through.

Immediately, the drapes from the window beside the door seized him, wrapping around him like two grasping hands, pulling him tight. They’d been cut into strange shapes. What was this? Some art of Stonewards? He panicked, but the cloth—moving on its own—filled his mouth. Like a constrictor from the old world, it bound him, tied around him, then slammed him against the wall and held him there.

He whimpered.

“Well hello, Herald,” said a man sitting at Kalak’s desk. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions.”

He was a foreigner, with long mustaches and a short stature. Pale skin, his hands laced before him. A floppy hat rested atop the desk. Kalak thought he recognized the man. A member of the caravan? One of Prince Adolin’s soldiers?

Oh … oh no …

A dagger with a gemstone affixed to the crossguard lay next to the hat. The foreigner glanced at it, then smiled. “Oh, don’t focus on that. We won’t be needing it, will we?”

Kalak whimpered again.

The stranger picked up the box that Shallan had relinquished to Kalak, the one that held the seon. The creature liked to hide inside, timid and—

The stranger rapped on the box, and the ball of light popped out. “We good, Felt?” it asked with a feminine voice.

“Should be,” Felt replied.

“Finally!” the spren said. “You have no idea how aggravating that experience was.”

“You did well,” Felt said, leaning back in Kalak’s chair. “I heard Shallan and Adolin talking, worried about the trauma you’d undergone by being ‘in prison.’”

“Domi!” the spren replied. “If I had to listen to one more lovers’ spat between those two—let alone one more makeup session—I would grow a stomach so I could vomit.”

The ball of light swooped over to where Kalak was held against the wall. The spren’s entire air had changed from a frightened and abused creature—with dim light, and a symbol flickering at the center—to a glowing, confident sphere.

Storms … this was the thing they’d used to communicate. It knew everything they’d discussed. The real spy hadn’t been Shallan. He felt such a fool. He, more than any, should have realized the potential for spren to turn against you. He struggled weakly in the strange bonds.

“I was about to interrogate him, Ala,” Felt said.

“There might not be a need,” Ala replied. “I’ve already relayed the information on Mishram’s location to Iyatil.”

“And Lord Kelsier?” Felt said. “I don’t work for that masked witch.”

“Him as well,” Ala said. “Obviously.” The spren hovered around Kalak’s head. “Do we use the dagger?”

Felt considered it, saw Kalak’s distress, and frowned. “No. I don’t trust it—Iyatil gave it to us, and Lord Kelsier said to be careful. I think we wait to make sure the mission goes as planned. Mraize and Iyatil might contact us for more explanations. So we sit tight, keep this one company, and bide our time.”

“I’m ready to be done with this world.”

“It’s not so bad,” Felt said, idly playing with the dagger that could—if used correctly—end Kalak forever. “Once you get used to everyone being a foot taller than you are. Be patient, Ala. Only a fool assumes they know everything, and Kalak might yet have a part to play.”

Kalak squeezed his eyes shut, trembling, his heart beating rapidly. But a part of him … a part of him was relieved. It seemed that one way or another, further decisions were out of his hands.

Wind and Truth

Odium knelt, holding a dying child.

This was Tu Bayla, considered a backwater by other nations—a place where foreign armies clashed, rather than ruining their own lands. Azir had fought Jah Keved—or Alethkar, when it held Jah Keved—here dozens of times over.

Few thought of Tu Bayla; when mortal, Odium never had. Yet it had its own wonderful traditions. The people raised a strain of domesticated mink as hunting companions, and nearly everyone had one as a pet. They named their daughters after stars and their sons after flowers. They loved to sing, and had the greatest variety of instruments on all of Roshar, though few outsiders ever got to hear the beautiful music.

Now they died. A famine had struck the land, initiated by the passing Everstorm destroying crops—exacerbated by the ending of trade between Azir and Jah Keved, who were now on opposite sides of the war. Most importantly, in the chaos, the government had collapsed and warlords claimed any supplies for themselves, using them as leverage to rule.

So many children died here, unseen. And Odium …

That was not my name, he thought. I cannot lose myself in godhood.

Odium wept for them, and—having formed a body from his infinite essence—held one little boy close. Cultivation appeared behind him, wearing clothing that evoked the woods—green and vibrant brown, dark hair in tight curls.

“I have infinite capacity,” Odium whispered, his voice ragged. “I can see to the ends of the cosmere. I can see the lives of people great and small. I had thought this wonderful, with so much to experience, but now I find only suffering. Infinite capacity to see. Infinite capacity to feel. Infinite capacity for agony.”

“Yes,” Cultivation said softly.

Odium was a person divided. One side thinking, the other feeling. The former understood that with his vast powers and knowledge, he would of course have to accept certain drawbacks or complications.

The latter just wanted to weep.

“This is a curse,” he said, holding the dying child close. “I should be able to help them. Save them!”

“You are forbidden,” Cultivation said, “from taking direct action against any who are not fully given to you.”

“Because of the pact my predecessor made,” he spat. “I can break it.”

“In so doing, you would be vulnerable to outside attack,” she said. “The powers bind us to our promises, particularly those made and sealed with a formal oath.” She crouched by him.

“You promised to teach me what it is to be a god,” he whispered.

“I am,” she said. “I know the pain, Odium, and why it must be. Tell me you don’t. Tell me you can’t understand.”

The logical side of him asserted control, shoving down the side that simply wanted to rage. “I understand,” he admitted. “Assuming these were fully mine, and I were allowed, it would not be enough. I could wave my hand, heal this boy’s body—but I’d return in several weeks and find him starving again, because the systems that caused this suffering are still in place.”

“Yes.”

“So I change the systems,” he said. “I strike down the warlords who hoard resources! I force them to share, to not hurt one another. I make pain impossible.”

“And in so doing …”

“I create a country where there are no consequences. Is that so bad?”

“You tell me,” she said in her infuriatingly calm way.

Yes, it would be bad. He could see all the permutations of time, as well as attempts by other Shards like himself to do this very thing. By directly intervening on such a granular level, he risked creating a society where no one learned, and where civilization did not progress. By supernaturally forbidding warlords, he would also stifle scientists and artists. By removing the capacity for violence, he would also remove the capacity for mercy.

The child died. He saw the soul briefly before it vanished to a place beyond his touch.

“What do we do instead?” Cultivation said.

“You want me to say,” he whispered, “that we create systems—teachings, incentives—that encourage the right decisions. That we prevent war by building up societies where people choose peace. We prevent greed by nurturing governments where the greedy are held accountable. We take time, and we steer, but we do not dominate.”

“Yes.”

He carefully rested the child’s body on the ground, then stood to face Cultivation, who rose to meet him eye to eye. Anger made him tremble. This divinity he held, it had so much emotion he could barely steer it.

“I blame you,” he hissed.

“For the boy’s death?” Cultivation said. “But I just showed you that—”

“I blame you,” he said, “because you should have done better. Eight thousand years, and you should have fixed this. All three of you.”

“You can see the circumstances that prevented that.”

“Your fault still. I can do better.”

“Odium … do not make this mistake.”

“The problem,” he said, “is not these people. You shift the blame to them with elementary theological arguments.”

“Elementary,” she replied, “in the same way that gravity is elementary. Basic, because it is the foundation. People must be allowed choice.”

“There is a spectrum of choice that can be allowed,” he said. “No society can persist with complete freedom, and growth can happen within limits. I can make it so that free will exists to an acceptable degree, while also preventing famines.”

“You could do it now,” she said. “Calm the Everstorm. Make peace between nations. Restore trade.”

“And in so doing, set them up for another war in a few years? Learn your own lessons, Cultivation. These people will not get along because they have different forces manipulating them. Honor’s touch lingers, and your own meddling—invisible to most—creates so much tension and strife. It is worse in the greater cosmere. So many gods who are cowards.”

“Because we give people choice?”

“Because you killed your father, and now worry the same will happen to you. Like the warlords here, you consolidate power so that no one can kill you.” He stepped toward her, raising a fist, the emotions making a tempest of rage inside him. “I am the very substance of passion, and where a person suffers anywhere in this miserable galaxy, I feel it. That is the burden of this power.”

“It is why,” she said, “I called yours the most dangerous and difficult of them all. You can be the one who—”

“I know their anger, Cultivation. Do not lecture me. Oh, I taste it. Every moment. And I also know there will not be a way to soothe that agony, not until …”

She held his eyes. He saw in them the depths of eternity, as he was sure she saw in his—for these forms they wore were but cloaks across a vast essence that was itself infinite.

“Not until what?” she demanded.

“Not until there is but one god,” Odium whispered.

“Do not go down this path. It destroyed your predecessor.”

“I destroyed my predecessor,” he said. “Leave me. I am finished with your ‘lessons.’”

She did, stalking away and vanishing—leaving him with the knowledge that she would work against him. She had already been planning to do so, pulling on threads for millennia to get what she wanted. She had raised him up because the old Odium was becoming too violent, too willing to destroy everything as the emotions raged freely. This had been her only choice to prevent a much greater cataclysm.

The divided one knelt, and let himself feel. He was not Odium. He held Odium. He would not let it rule.

He was not Odium.

He was Taravangian.

And he had an important mission, the same that he’d given himself years ago when he’d seen the threat to Kharbranth—then had moved to save it. He was the one who could both see the coming danger and be willing to stop it.

He was Taravangian, the divided one—and he could save them. All of them.

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

As I approached the first crossroads, I met a family seeking a new life.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Dalinar was not asleep.

He stood on his balcony, gazing out at the night, feeling alone. He was never truly alone these days, not with the Stormfather increasingly present in the back of his mind. Still, the sensation persisted. Dalinar. Alone. Against a god.

He had eight days to find a way to defeat Odium. When younger, Gavilar had stood like this, surveying a battlefield, planning—while Dalinar had just blundered from fight to fight, stomping on toes and breaking down fences. How much better would all of this have gone if Dalinar had died in his brother’s place that fateful night? Perhaps this war would already have been won.

But Gavilar was dead. So Dalinar surveyed the cold highlands, trying to see better than he had in the past. Finally, he shook his head and walked into his chambers. At least this place was starting to feel like home. Navani knew he detested clutter, and had begun expertly arranging the room to match both her desire for decoration and his preference for austerity. The result was homey, bedecked with items like his grandfather’s takama, which hung on the wall between two banners, cloth belt wrapped around it. Twice.

He felt as tense as a bowstring. A subconscious portion of his mind could tell when a battle was shifting out of his control: when a line was close to breaking, or a formation about to be flanked. He felt it today, like a straining leather strap on the verge of snapping.

So when the knock came at his door—frantic, fast, urgent—he knew. The storm was here.

He reached the door as Pabolon, one of the door guards, was checking it. A Windrunner squire stood outside, eyes wide, Stormlight streaming from her.

“What has happened?” he said.

Jasnah was not asleep.

Partly it was this stupid bed. Wit adored plushness. He wanted a mattress that would swallow a person, and had found hers to be unsuitably stiff.

Jasnah liked trying new things; this relationship itself was, in a way, such an experiment. She had enjoyed it for many reasons—the scheming together, the sharing of incredible plans, the chance to connect with someone so intellectually stimulating. Relationships were about compromise, she had read, and so she’d procured a new bed.

And she hated it. She swam in stuffing, irritationspren—like pink motes almost invisible in the night—bobbing around her as she listened to Wit breathing. He didn’t snore, but he did occasionally whistle.

She turned to the other side, which—since they both tended to sink toward the center of this awful mattress—should have jostled him. He just lay on his back, whistling softly as he exhaled. Was he actually asleep? He’d hinted that he visited other places at night. Other worlds. Engaging in political machinations at which she could still only guess.

Yes, there had been wonderful things about the relationship. So many others, however, were like this bed.

“You lie to me sometimes,” she whispered, facing him in the darkness. “You realize that means it can’t be a true relationship? I can trust someone who has secrets, but not someone who lies.”

If he was aware, he didn’t say anything, though Design—on the wall behind him—pulsed and rotated. So far Jasnah had caught him in only the most minor of lies. He’d engage in wordplay with her, or toy with puns, and she’d ask him to stop. He’d promise, and would appear to have followed through. But then she’d notice that the games hadn’t ceased, they’d merely grown more subtle—Wit taking the wordplay to a more esoteric layer, difficult to spot.

He seemed to think it would engage her, push her. Instead it signaled something else: Wit would do what he thought was best for a person, not what they wanted.

Despite her efforts, she knew she wasn’t connecting to him physically as he’d like. Even during sex, she felt distant. Perhaps the most distant she ever felt. That made him anxious, as if he were doing something wrong; he thought if he tried harder, he’d do something mind-blowing and change how she felt.

In turn, he wasn’t connecting with her on an emotional level, as she wanted. If only he’d be up-front with her …

She turned over again. A stiff pillow did little to counteract the strange stuffing, which was made of baby chicken feathers. Or perhaps the smallest feathers of adult chickens? She hadn’t been able to parse Wit’s description, but either way, a good lavis-husk mattress was far superior. Shredded, to remove the awkward lumps.

She had ordered another new mattress to put in the next room. She valued the experiment of trying it his way, but she would not continue in discomfort simply to please him. A relationship required sacrifice by all parties, but it should not be built on a foundation of sacrifice. And …

And storms. This was why it was best to avoid such entanglements. Eight days until Dalinar confronted Odium, and she was worrying about a relationship.

Perhaps it was a way to distract her. Because despite all of her training, all of her learning, all of her preparation … the final decision was going to come down to someone else. Dalinar would face Odium’s champion himself.

She did not dispute his choice. He was a Bondsmith and a fierce warrior. He’d had dealings with Odium, and perhaps understood the creature better than any mortal. Jasnah had written out the reasons he was the best choice. Yet … could it have been her? What if, instead of hiding her powers, she’d told people what she could do and what she feared?

Her life and Dalinar’s seemed very different. He’d burned a city, and people forgave him. He’d proclaimed the Almighty to be dead, and half the ardents had joined him. Yet when Jasnah was honest about her atheism, her thoughts on government, or her displeasure with traditions like the safehand … well, condemnation and judgment had chased her like twin headsmen, each looking to get a whipping in before the execution.

When Jasnah Kholin spoke her mind, people hated her. Perhaps she’d learned the wrong lessons from that, but could she be blamed?

She curled up, listening to the quiet sounds of Urithiru. Water moving through pipes of its own accord. Air whispering as it was pumped through vents. Trembling there, she at last realized why she hated this mattress so much. It reminded her of the soft restraints they’d given her when she’d been young. When those who loved her had locked her away for a few terrible months that basically everyone else had forgotten about.

Everyone but Jasnah.

Who would never forget.

Wit suddenly sat up in bed. “Oh, hell,” he whispered.

Jasnah came alert, forming Ivory as a Blade—a short, sturdy dagger—and warning her armor spren to be ready. She reached to the covered bowl of spheres beside the bed, but did not remove the black shroud or draw in Stormlight—Light rising from her skin would make her a target in the darkness.

Wit sat there, barely visible by the dim light that escaped the bowl through the shroud. He wore silken nightclothes, though his hair—as always—was immaculate, despite his having slept on it. How?

“What?” she hissed at him.

“Oh, bollocks,” he whispered, and leaped from the bed, shockspren erupting all around, Design scurrying down the wall and across the floor toward him. “The darkest, hairiest, greasiest bollocks on the most unkempt nethers of the most wanton demon of the most obscure religion’s damnable hellscape.”

“Wit?” Jasnah said as he rushed to the counter. “Wit!”

He looked to her, wild eyed. Then he pulled the shroud off some spheres and washed the room in light. She blinked, dismissing her Blade. If Wit wasn’t worried about blinding them, then this wasn’t a physical danger. It might just be another of his strange rants.

Except for the way he looked at her, eyes like glowing spheres. Lips drawn, without even a hint of a smile. Jaw taut, hands clenched. Breathing quickly.

Genuine panic. “Wit,” she said. “Please. What’s wrong?”

“Give me a moment,” he mumbled, turning back to the counter covered in documents. “I need … I need a moment …” He extracted a notebook and began writing. She stood, and though the air was warm—thanks to her mother’s transformations—she felt cold in only her nightgown. She threw on a robe, then leaned over Wit’s shoulder.

The symbols he wrote were unfamiliar—one of the many languages he could speak from worlds beyond hers. It appeared that he was making a table though. And those notations at the left of each row—the dots and lines—numbers? They repeated far more often than the other symbols did.

He wrote furiously, his handwriting growing sloppy. And he’d pulled out some of the strange color-changing sand he used when experimenting. His expression grew more intense.

The doors began to shake. Jasnah had a sword in hand a second later, but then realized it was him. No one was on the other side. He was exerting some kind of pressure that made the doors vibrate. The rings in her jewelry box began to spill out onto the floor, while her shoes scooted away, pushed by their buckles. Every bit of metal in the room, save for her Shardblade, reacted to him—including her fabrial alarms, which went haywire, flashing rapidly.

Then the sand burst alight with a mother-of-pearl iridescence and hovered above the table. Wit’s silky nightclothes began to writhe and contort as if alive. His motions became increasingly frantic, fearspren bubbling up through the ground around them. Then in a flash—his body shape physically changing, molded like wax—he became another person. Shorter, with stark white hair and subtly different features.

This is the real him, she realized. A man not from their world who masqueraded as Wit. But … his change had been physical, not an illusion.

He turned to her, pencil snapping under the pressure from his fingers. “I’ve been tricked,” he said.

“H-how?” she asked.

The sand turned black and sprayed back down onto the counter. Wit’s shape reverted to his familiar self in seconds, and the room quieted—as if at an order from him—save for her fabrial alarms strobing the room white and red. He stood, again taller than she was, and held up what he’d written.

“I’m missing,” Wit said, “three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

“I’m not following,” she said. “Forgive me, Wit. I’m trying to parse this, but … Storms, what is happening?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, slumping into the seat beside her stone counter—a natural feature of the room that jutted from the wall. “I have lived a very long time, Jasnah. Longer than a mortal mind can track, so I store memories in something called Breath, an easily accessible—if costly—form of Investiture a person can adopt and, with training, use to expand their soul. I periodically review my memories, deciding what can be jettisoned. In my review just now, I found something unexpected, something terrifying.”

“Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds,” she whispered, interrogating the notes on his page. As if by force of will she could decipher them. “Missing. When?”

“A bit over a day ago,” he said.

“And … what were you doing at the time?”

He let out a long breath, then met her eyes. “I was having a chat with Odium.”

“A chat,” she said, her heart trembling, “with the most ancient enemy of humankind? The being that seeks to destroy us, to crush my family, to weaponize all of Roshar for his own ends? A chat?”

“We have a history,” Wit explained. “As I believe I’ve told you.”

Jasnah turned off her alarms, then pulled a chair over and sank down, feeling sick to her stomach. “I asked you, Wit,” she whispered. “I asked you to involve me in any dealings you had with him.”

“I’m telling you now, Jasnah,” he said. “That is, technically, involving you.”

She held his eyes and knew. There would never be a place for her inside his deepest self, would there? She’d always be on the outside, maintained as part of his collection. Enjoyed, perhaps even loved, but never confided in.

She had to withdraw, for her own sake. Anxietyspren, like twisting black crosses, vanished as she tucked away feelings of betrayal. She had known what she was getting into with him. One did not court an immortal lightly.

“What were you saying to Odium?” she asked.

“I …” He shrugged. “I had to gloat a little. It was requisite, considering our history.” His eyes became distant. “I remember … feeling odd about the encounter. A sense of repetition. Something happened in those lost minutes. He got the better of me, then excised the memory from my mind, letting me believe I’d won the exchange. Now that I look, I can find the remnants. It was hurriedly done.”

“This is wrong, isn’t it?” she said.

“Fantastically wrong. Rayse is a megalomaniac, Jasnah. For all his craftiness, it would hurt him to let me walk away thinking I’d bested him. Yet this time he encouraged it.” Wit leaned forward and took her hand. “He’s grown. After ten thousand years, Rayse has actually learned something. That terrifies me. Because if I can’t anticipate what he will do …”

“Then what?”

“We have to reread the agreement between him and Dalinar,” Wit said. “Now.”

Jasnah had a copy. After Dalinar and Odium had agreed upon the terms, the Sibling had been able to quote for them the exact wording. They indicated that an agreement between gods wasn’t quite a contract, but it could be written out as one.

Wit started to scan it.

“Wit,” she said, feeling genuinely unnerved. “Odium said he would keep to the spirit of the agreement, not exploiting loopholes. You confirmed this was indeed how it would work?”

“So I thought,” Wit murmured, still reading. “I also thought I knew Rayse. Everything is uncertain …”

A pounding sounded at the entry to her rooms. She pressed her hand on the wall and asked the Sibling to turn on the lights, then passed out of the bedroom, through the sitting room, to the door. She rapped out a pattern, and heard the proper knock in return, then eased open the door to reveal Hendit of the Cobalt Guard. A man with discretion to match his general poise. She trusted him as much as she trusted any, so wasn’t bothered when he saw Wit leave the bedroom.

“What?” she said to Hendit.

“Radiant Shallan and Highprince Adolin have returned, Your Majesty,” he said in a low voice. “Armies are moving through Shadesmar toward Azimir, and they report the Oathgate will let them through. Your uncle has called for a meeting at first bell.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, then closed the door and looked back across the sitting room toward Wit.

An invasion force closing on Azimir. She and Dalinar had both anticipated there would be attacks right up until the deadline, but they’d expected border skirmishes. After all, what kind of major offensive could be mobilized and executed in just ten days?

“I knew the loss of Cultivation’s Perpendicularity was going to bite us,” Wit said. “We should have fought for it.”

“We didn’t have the resources to hold the seas of Shadesmar,” Jasnah said. “We can defend against this assault. Assuming …”

“Assuming there aren’t more such assaults coming,” Wit said. “Which seems a dangerous assumption. Something about this feels wrong, so very, very wrong … What else have I missed?”

“If you have missed something, will you perhaps miss it again as you study?”

“You’re right,” he said. He took a deep breath. “You’re … you’re right. We need an expert, beyond even my considerable knowledge.”

“Do you know any?”

“On your world?” he asked. “Only one, but she and I aren’t on speaking terms. I will instead see if I can contact an old friend …”

Navani was not asleep.

She climbed through the bowels of Urithiru, exploring an ancient tunnel that—until her bonding of the Sibling—had been inaccessible. Lifespren bounced around her, small glowing green motes. Each one that arrived at the tower, called by the sudden transformation, first found Navani and spun around her for a few hours before making its way to the fields.

She’d tried sleeping. It hadn’t worked, so she’d succumbed to her longing to explore. This tunnel ultimately led to a large chamber with a wall of fabrials: hundreds of glowing gemstones in wire housings, emerging from the stone like rockbuds.

She’d been led here, as she could feel the workings of the tower. A thousand different fabrials pulsed in her mind, up and down the structure. Attractors drawing water to pumps deep below, delivering it to thousands of different faucets across the enormous building. Heating fabrials to warm the air. And these on the wall … they drew in air and pushed it through Urithiru, ventilating the entire city. How much could she learn from this? What marvels could she build with such knowledge?

She closed her eyes, sensing the fabrials in the wall more acutely now that she was near. Their air was like the breath in her lungs, the water the pulse of her veins. Anytime she paused, she felt it—and a host of other interactions. Lights glowing from within stone. The lifts in near-constant motion. The powerful strength of Towerlight, infusing all Radiants who entered.

With that, she hoped her home—now an extension of her very self—would be safe from any further attacks by the enemy.

It should be, the Sibling said in her mind. They rarely dared infiltrate me before. My Light not only knocks Fused unconscious, it makes the Radiants here virtually invincible.

We need to learn how to send that Light with them, Navani thought back, trailing through the room, resting her fingers on each fabrial she could reach. Spren of a half dozen varieties followed like a cloak made of light.

It cannot be done, the Sibling said. Humans cannot hold my Light; they are too full of holes.

In talking to Dalinar earlier, she’d learned that a Radiant leaving would lose Towerlight almost immediately. If a person carried it in a gemstone, the Light escaped faster than Stormlight did. Towerlight was a gift, but solely in Urithiru.

But while they were here, it was omnipresent. Like the rhythms she now felt through her bond. She closed her eyes, letting herself experience it all. Pulses from the planet. The mechanics of the tower. The spren singing to the Sibling.

She found such incredible awareness impossible to ignore. So no, she didn’t sleep. She hadn’t in two days, and didn’t feel tired or draw a single exhaustionspren.

Would you like me to quiet the noise? the Sibling asked.

Perhaps, Navani replied. I will need sleep eventually.

No, the Sibling said. You’re part of me, and I am part of you. The tower doesn’t need sleep. You will not either.

No sleep …

She should have asked, but there was so much to learn. She’d discovered only yesterday that she couldn’t leave the tower for any extended period of time, or it would weaken the bond. A few weeks at most was all she could risk.

She tried not to feel inhibited by that. She had great gifts, and the trade-off was a reasonable one. Plus, how much could she get done with the extra hours not spent asleep? She opened her eyes and tipped her head back, looking up some thirty feet at the wall dappled with gemstones and filigree. It was all so wonderfully overwhelming. Not just the bond to the tower, but her emotional journey. Acknowledging her self-worth. Becoming a Radiant, when she’d been certain it would not be her lot.

A solitary keenspren, like a marvelous three-dimensional gradient of color, appeared above her. She gasped—it was the first she’d ever seen.

They are afraid, the Sibling said. Of being captured. So they do not often come to humans.

One thing still divided Navani and the Sibling, who disapproved of modern fabrials. The spren worried Navani would take what she learned and create more abominations. Modern fabrials required trapping spren against their wishes. The archaic versions, like the ones that ran the tower, used willing spren—but were inefficient in so many ways …

And storms. There was so much to learn. So much to do. She barely knew where to start. Perhaps she could discuss it with Dalinar? Hopefully he was asleep by now.

He’s opening the door to your rooms, the Sibling said. Would you like to listen to what he’s saying?

We need to talk about you spying on everyone in the tower, Navani replied.

Why?

It’s not right. People need privacy.

They’re inside me, Navani. They can’t expect privacy when they crawl inside someone. I don’t hear it all anyway. Only what I pay attention to.

Still, Navani replied, it seems—

Navani. NAVANI.

She froze in place, hand on a fabrial, lifespren swirling around her as they sensed her mood. What?

You really need to hear what this Windrunner is saying.

Queen Fen was not asleep.

She blamed the prince consort. Here, they’d come to the royal yacht because he longed for the “sound of the deck creaking to serenade the swaying beat of waves on the hull.” They sometimes came down to the ship, even docked as it was, for a few nights. A getaway that didn’t involve much getting away, as she had business to be about.

But they weren’t in the yacht’s royal suite. They were belowdecks, in the midshipmen’s quarters, stuffed into a hammock. She didn’t complain; she was the one who had married a sailor. Plus, this was cozy and warm. But still.

“Aren’t we,” she said, swaying in the dark room, “a little old for this, gemheart?”

“I’ll take it up with the council, love,” he replied, his whiskers sharp on her skin. “The queen would like advice from her most brilliant of advisors: Is she too old for quality time with her husband? Perhaps she is too distinguished for an occasional tumble in the surf?”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” she replied. “Just the part where we snuck away from the guards and found a hammock. You’re almost seventy, you know.”

“Which makes you …”

“Almost seventy.”

“Pretty young,” he said, “by some accountings.”

“By what kind of accounting is seventy young?”

“Almost seventy.”

“And?”

“And the average age of your merchant council must be somewhere in the eighties,” Kmakl replied. “So by that comparison, we’re basically a new schooner. Now stop distracting me from distracting you.”

She sighed, but relaxed into the swaying hammock, the rough canvas rubbing her bare skin. Waves rocked the ship, and her cares fled before warm perfection. Until a brilliant white light lit the cabin. Damnation.

She sat up, as did Kmakl on the other side of the hammock. Both of them glared at the young lieutenant standing on the ladder up, holding a diamond sphere lantern. His eyes locked on Fen—bare in the hammock—and he dropped the lantern in shock. It broke open, spilling diamonds in a cascade of glittering light.

“Bother,” Kmakl said. “I thought they knew not to look for us. I specifically left hints …”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the lieutenant said, scrambling down the ladder, shamespren all around as he started snatching up the diamonds. “Sorry! I didn’t see! I mean, I’m sorry I saw, Your Majesty! Ah!”

“It’s fine,” she said, leaning back. “You know, the queens of history were sometimes painted with one breast bare?”

“Never did understand that,” Kmakl said.

“Some nonsense about suckling a nation,” Fen replied. “As if these old things would offer more than sawdust.”

The lieutenant continued to scramble for diamonds—though if he’d had half a brain, he would have simply left.

“It truly is our fault for sneaking off,” Kmakl said. “Can’t believe you let me talk you into it, Fen. I thought you were more responsible.”

She rolled her eyes, then pulled a glove onto her safehand. “Look,” she said, wiggling the fingers. “There. Does that help, Lieutenant?”

“No!” the young man said in a shrill voice. “It really, really doesn’t!”

She grinned at Kmakl, feeling a wicked delight at the young officer’s discomfort. Served him right. Though they pretended to be sneaky, the entire ship knew to turn a blind eye, letting them imagine they were being scandalous.

“Oh, let the lad off, Fen,” Kmakl said.

“Get on with you, boy,” Fen said. “We’ll deal with the spilled spheres. You pretend you weren’t here, and so will we. Out. Shoo.”

The youth stood up, his white eyebrows stiffened in the naval fashion. He squeezed his eyes closed and saluted. “Your Majesty! Prince Consort! I’ve been sent to locate you! News from Urithiru: enemy armies are poised to invade Azir!”

“What?” Fen said, coming alert. She reached for her clothing on the floor, nearly dumping the two of them out on their bare backsides. “Why didn’t you say something!”

“Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry!” He saluted again, eyes still closed.

“I thought they already invaded Azir,” Kmakl said.

“That was Emul,” she replied. “It’s impossible they’d reach Azir by the deadline; we have the bulk of our armies in the way.”

“They’re coming through Shadesmar!” the lieutenant said.

“Does the Thaylen Council know, lad?” Kmakl asked.

“They’re being roused. I—” He cut off and stumbled back as someone else slid down the ladder.

It was a storming admiral. Fladrn to be precise—a man with grey hair like stormclouds and spiked eyebrows. He took in her state of undress and didn’t miss a beat. “Your Majesty, this is urgent.”

“This news about Shadesmar is that bad?” Fen said, dressing rapidly. If Fladrn had come in person …

“No, not that,” Fladrn said. “This is something new.”

Fen froze. A pit forming in the depths of her stomach, anticipationspren rising through the floorboards in the shape of streamers. Perhaps it was a lifetime of always expecting the worst, but she somehow knew what he was going to say.

“A second offensive,” she guessed.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “Our blockade of Jah Keved has been breached. We just got word.”

“The Veden blockade?” Kmakl said. “We were supposed to have that well secured, barring …”

“Barring heavy air support,” Fen said, closing her eyes. “Heavenly Ones?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the admiral said. “Skybreakers. The entire force of them—hundreds. They drove back the Windrunners posted to protect our ships, then sank half the fleet. The other half of our armada scattered, but now an assault force is heading straight for Thaylen City.”

She tried to contain her anxiety. They had assumed the enemy would squabble over borders, but it appeared he had planned something grander: a play for the hearts of the coalition’s capitals.

“Storms,” Kmakl whispered.

“Let’s get moving,” she said, opening her eyes and throwing his trousers to him. “Our city is in danger, and with the blockade broken, we can’t stop an assault. It’s time to see how much this coalition is willing to provide in support.”

Yanagawn the First, Prime Aqasix, Emperor of all Makabak, was sleeping.

He had to be sleeping. Because the schedule said he was to be asleep, and he kept to the schedule. It was basically the sole thing required of him. Follow the outline, provide a model of stability for an empire.

The emperor did not lie awake, staring at his ceiling. The emperor understood that by sheer force of will he could bring peace and harmony to his people. So by force of will, the emperor could obviously make himself fall asleep. So he was sleeping. Right then. He had to be.

Therefore, all the thoughts that crowded his mind—well, they were the thoughts of a man dreaming.

He did not toss or turn. That would be interpreted as nervousness by the ten blessed citizens who had been granted the privilege of maintaining his bedside vigil. A great honor, tonight bestowed upon women who had worked diligently to feed their armies fighting near Emul. It happened all night, every night. Every hour, ten new people would come bask in the imperial presence.

Not Yanagawn’s presence. It wasn’t a man who blessed this nation, but the office itself. Yanagawn was basically like the rack that held up his clothing, kept to his shape so those passing outside could see it and be inspired.

How he wished he could do more than stand and be seen.

It was good he was asleep, because those thoughts were unseemly. Yanagawn was specifically not a man like Dalinar Kholin, who made decisions, then acted. A man who had charged into battle with Plate and Blade, forging a nation. That kind of man was dangerous.

Except, while dreaming, Yanagawn wished he were dangerous.

On paper, he owned every Shard in the greater empire. In reality, many were owned by other kingdoms—and though they paid lip service to the imperial seat of Azir, they would never consider delivering up their artifacts. He’d be a fool to expose imperial impotence by making such a demand.

Azir also owned Shards, carried by distinguished soldiers with an imperial grant of rights—they could offer aid to the great merchants and houses of Azir in exchange for money, much of which went to the crown. Most of their work was civil: cutting new trenches and the like. Those who wielded them were loyal, and it was a respected position. Demanding they return their Shards would be a great dishonor to them. Plus, it would involve quite a bit of paperwork.

Even if they did return the Shards, Yanagawn couldn’t wield them. He was too important. He was needed. Not to administer the kingdom—that wasn’t his job, as tons of codes of law made explicit. His job was to lie in bed, sleeping while his mind ran on at length, watched over by praying citizens.

Yaezir, god above, in the Halls pristine, he thought, is this really all you want of me?

He would never want to return to his days as a thief with his uncle. He’d hated that life. Living each day for the next heist? Upending the order of the nation, a parasite feeding off those doing hard work? No, he didn’t want that. But the more he learned, the bigger he realized the world was. And how little lying in a bed staring at his own eyelids could accomplish.

So he was excited when someone broke protocol. Guards arrived at the door, whispering apologies to the honored guests who had fed armies. Bowing to them, as today they were among the greatest in the empire. Then deeper bows to him.

Yanagawn opened his eyes and sat up calmly. The cooks whispered, eyes wide. He took in the five guards, pleased to remember each of their names, though he’d never speak to them directly—to do so would make them uncomfortable. Instead he looked past them to where Noura knelt. Head vizier of his court. Scholar, strategist, teacher.

Whatever had happened was important indeed. Without a word, he slipped from his bed and held his hands to the sides so he could be dressed.

The emperor was awake.

Wind and Truth

This family did not speak my language, but we could both write glyphs, which proved facilitative in our conversation. As I shared their kindly cookfire, I learned some of their story.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Though Shallan had insisted on going to gather and talk with her Lightweavers, Adolin managed a few hours’ sleep. He rose, planning to arrive early for the meeting so he could get updates on current troop placements. Unfortunately, something interrupted his plans. It was called a shower.

Water rained down through holes in the ceiling of a small room beside his bedroom. A light behind the stones indicated the level of heat, and if he pressed his hand to it and rotated, he could make the water warmer or colder. A similar dial let him control the pressure and flow.

He was a highprince. A Shardbearer. And this was the single greatest moment of luxury he’d ever known. Steam filled the room like a Thaylen sauna as warm water melted away his fatigue, his anxiety. Both had seemed solid as stone, but even stone gave way—eventually—before rainwater.

Storms. He could have stayed in here for hours. He turned up the pressure, letting the water massage his back. How would this feel after a hard training session? He released a huge sigh, drawing not a few joyspren. Storms, there really were a lot more spren in the tower now than before, weren’t there?

Shallan peeked in, a splash of auburn red against the yellow-brown strata. Her meetings must be done.

“What is that?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

“Hakindar calls it a shower,” Adolin said, naming their room steward.

She stared, aqua eyes bright as spheres. “I need to try it.” She was in there a moment later, looking stunning as she crowded him to the side. “Does it have to feel like a highstorm?”

“You can adjust the pressure here,” he said, pulling his eyes away and showing her. She turned it down—changing the flow from a beating frenzy to a soft sprinkle.

“Aaaahh …” she said. “But not hot enough.”

“Are you trying to drive me out?” Adolin asked as she turned the heat up to uncomfortable levels.

“It’s like rain,” she said, her head tipped back so the water could wash across her face, “if rain were warm.”

“Hot.”

“Heat is life. It reminds me that I’m alive.”

“You … forget that?”

“Once in a while,” she whispered, then leaned on him, wet hair against his chest. “You’re warm too.”

“Hakindar brought me six different soaps,” Adolin said. “And a rough sand mix from Marat to exfoliate! There’s this one soap out of Thaylenah—they use it on their eyebrows—that is fantastic for hair.”

She nodded absently, her eyes closed. So he held her, skin against skin, slick and warm. This was perfection. This was what he’d always wanted, and had never been able to find, until he met her. Not merely skin to skin. Soul to soul. He ran his fingers through her wet hair, massaging her scalp, her cheek against his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered. She grinned back, and he picked her up off the ground a little, surrounded by joyspren, holding her tight.

“I still …” Shallan whispered. “I still need to deal with the Ghostbloods. I might have to miss Dalinar’s meeting. Will you … will you tell him and Navani … about Mraize, and what I’ve done? I’m not sure I can spare the time.”

“Of course,” Adolin said, impressed by how willing she was to be open about these issues. And if she didn’t want to—perhaps couldn’t—explain to Dalinar herself right now, he understood. “I don’t blame you for wanting someone to prep my father for you. He can be … stern to those who disappoint him.”

She perhaps sensed the bitterness in his tone, noticed how several joyspren winked away. It had been a year since Adolin had learned Dalinar killed his mother, and he couldn’t let go. As he set Shallan down, she took his face in her hands.

“Would it help to talk?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Shallan,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t want to think about him. Or talk to him. I don’t want to fix things between us. I just … I …”

He’d thought waiting would let the pain fade. It had instead festered. He found himself more angry than he’d been when he’d first found out.

“Another time,” he told Shallan. “I promise. You’re really going to miss the meeting? Did you hear about Thaylen City? A second attack. Maybe more. We’ll know once the scout reports come in.”

“You can handle it,” she said. “Mraize is here in the tower somewhere, and will move against me soon. So I have to move first. It will help if you’ll talk to the Bondsmiths, maybe get me authorization for Radiant troops and a preemptive strike, if I can find the current Ghostblood nest.”

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her again. “Is this ever going to end? We met not long before the Everstorm, and married in the middle of a war. I’ve had enough of wearing uniforms every day. Watching cities fall. Feeling that I need to hold on tight every time I have you in my arms, as I don’t know when the next chance will be.”

“I know,” she whispered, head to his chest once more. “I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe and spend a week never leaving our rooms. But we can’t. Not yet. Mraize will try to hurt me, love. Prove that I was foolish to cross him. To get to me, he’ll capture or kill you if he can. I have to act before he does.”

He met her eyes, as best he could with both of them blinking away water. She reached up to push a cascade of soaked red hair out of her face. It might not have been the best place for a meaningful stare, but neither of them moved, and the joyspren were soon joined by passionspren—like snowflakes, but more crystalline.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For understanding?”

“For trusting me to understand,” he said. “I’ve never begrudged you your secrets, Shallan, but now that you’re sharing them, I find them precious.”

She cocked her head. “I … have shared them, haven’t I? You know it all. All about Mraize, the Ghostbloods, Formless …” She gripped his arms tight, pressing her entire self against him, and grinned, water dripping from her nose. “You know it all and you don’t hate me! Right?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“It’s almost kind of all right,” she said. “It can maybe, possibly work out … if I stop Mraize. I don’t know why he wants to find the prison of the most powerful Unmade, but …”

Adolin nodded. “I’ll represent you at the meeting.”

She moved to slip away, without even conditioning her hair. He pulled her back. Not for the hair though.

“Surely we have a few minutes,” he said, “before running to the next crisis? I mean, haven’t you always wondered what it would be like, out in the rain …?”

She paused, holding his hand. “Drat,” she said.

“What?”

“I was trying very hard to stay focused, Adolin Kholin,” she said, “and pretend you aren’t the most gorgeous statue of a man to ever grace the world.”

“Even when he’s wet?” he said.

“Um, especially when he’s wet, love.”

She stepped back to him, went up on her toes, and kissed him, water falling around them like applause. The heat he’d been fighting off rose within him, outdoing that of the stream from above, and the passionspren fell more powerfully. It seemed that whether or not she had time to spare, they were going to find it.

Dalinar stomped through the corridors of Urithiru, throwing on his coat. He was joined by Colot, second-in-command of the Cobalt Guard. The tall lighteyed man had little tufts of red hair mixed through his black, dark enough that they were visible only in direct light.

Dalinar didn’t need guards these days, but he said nothing as the man followed. Colot had been bouncing between positions for a few years, and the last thing he needed was to feel useless or rejected. Again. Kelen, the Windrunner squire who had come to fetch Dalinar, hovered along beside the two of them. It had been merely three days since Navani had reenergized the tower, and the Windrunners already appeared perfectly comfortable flying all the time.

Even at this time of night, Urithiru was usually active—but today the main thoroughfare was less congested than normal. The invasion and the curfews had a lingering effect. People were still traumatized, hiding in their rooms, recovering from the stress. Dalinar stormed forward, keeping momentum, as had always been his way. People who spotted him would yelp and jump back, but mostly he ignored everyone.

As they neared the atrium, where they’d be able to travel to the meeting chambers at the top of the tower, Windrunner Sigzil came streaking through the corridor and landed nearby. “I have the initial scout reports, sir.”

“And?”

“And you were right, sir,” Sigzil said, holding up a stack of papers as they walked. “It’s not just Azimir and Thaylen City—there’s a third offensive. A large number of Fused are marching on the Shattered Plains.”

Damnation. Two was bad enough—particularly when one was Thaylen City, which had barely recovered from the Battle of Thaylen Field a year ago. It didn’t have much of a defensive force remaining, and what few ships the royal navy maintained had been dedicated to the Veden blockade. He’d need to send Fen support. A great deal of it.

“What do we know about the Fused?” Dalinar asked.

“We sent two Windrunners,” Sigzil said, “who were stationed at a scout post in the Frostlands. Sir, they estimate almost a thousand Fused, and at least one thunderclast is with them, if not both.”

“Storms,” Dalinar said. A thousand Fused? He’d never faced a battle with more than two hundred. There weren’t that many Radiants in all Roshar—not by half. “Why the Shattered Plains? Did they get wind of Jasnah’s plan to found a second Alethi kingdom there?”

The Windrunners didn’t have answers for him, though it did make sense to send Fused. Odium couldn’t get many troops to the Shattered Plains before the deadline—so he’d have to rely on quality rather than quantity. Plus, Fused moved far faster than conventional troops, especially if they had Heavenly Ones to fly them part of the distance.

“A three-way assault,” Kelen said, hovering to his left. “Striking at our three most powerful strongholds other than Urithiru.”

“Assuming,” Sigzil said, “they aren’t planning to strike here as well.”

“The Sibling is confident,” Dalinar said, “that no Fused would dare set foot here now, and that Regal powers won’t work. They’d have to use conventional troops, which would be massacred by our Radiants.”

But this did seem to be a message. Strikes on Dalinar’s coalition: Azimir, Thaylen City, and the Shattered Plains, which was becoming Alethkar in exile. Once the contest arrived in eight days, the borders would freeze—and while the enemy could probably capture more land by pushing at the borders, this was more intimidating. It warned that Odium could cut out the very hearts of his enemies if he wanted.

Well, let him try. They reached the atrium and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the central hub below. A large window ran up the length of the far wall, stretching a hundred stories into the sky, showing darkness outside.

“Just in case,” Dalinar said, “wake every soldier. Send patrols to scan the nearby mountains and into Shadesmar here. Post quadruple guard forces at any possible incursion point into Urithiru—including the Oathgates and the caverns. Any news on the other monarchs?”

“They’re confirmed for your meeting, sir,” Sigzil said, holding up the papers. “Teshav asked me to deliver these. Letters from Azir and Thaylenah—both sound quite alarmed, but agree that meeting is wise.”

Dalinar had given him authority, as leader of the Windrunners, to read letters like this. It was wonderful to have another man around who didn’t feel embarrassed to be seen reading. In the past, Sigzil had always been coy about his training in Azir, and whether it included the ability to read Alethi scripts. In the face of Dalinar’s decisions, his need for subterfuge had evaporated.

“Has anyone seen Wit?” Dalinar asked.

“There,” Sigzil said, pointing toward one of the lifts already rising to the upper floors. “I spotted him and the queen on their way.”

“Good,” Dalinar said, holding out his hand. “If you’ll give me a Lashing, I might beat them there. Then …” He trailed off as he noticed someone approaching down the hallway. The nursemaid, carrying little Gavinor, dressed in his schoolchild’s outfit of knee-length trousers and a blouse.

“Mararin?” Dalinar said to her. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m taking him up to the garden room,” Mararin said. “It comforts him, Brightlord. I apologize; I didn’t expect to encounter you.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

Gav buried his face in her havah, but peeked at Dalinar. The boy’s eyes were red from tears.

“Nightmares?” Dalinar asked Mararin.

She nodded. The woman could be stern, but she cared deeply for the children she watched over.

“Grampa?” Gav whispered, yawning. “You promised to play swords with me.”

“You need sleep, Gav,” Dalinar said softly, stepping toward him. “And Grampa has important work today. We will play tomorrow.”

Gavinor nodded, rubbing his eyes on Mararin’s dress.

“Get him something to eat,” Dalinar said. “Then bring him up to the tower top. Maybe after my meeting I can—”

“Dalinar Kholin?” a voice asked.

He spun, but found that Colot the guardsman had already stepped between him and the speaker. She was a shorter woman, Makabaki, in brown clothing. Black hair in tight curls, heavyset build. Dark brown eyes that shimmered with something he couldn’t define.

“Do I know you?” Dalinar asked.

“We’ve met,” she said, then turned and walked along the balcony railing. She waved for him to follow.

“You give orders to the king of Urithiru?” Colot said. “What manner of—”

“Stay back,” Dalinar said, waving to them all. Then he ran to catch up to the woman. Her air, attitude, and looks dredged up deep memories. Ones he’d once forgotten by her own hand.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Cultivation. The third god.

Wind and Truth

They had left behind family and hereditary home, something many would find unconscionable.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Shallan lay on her back on the floor underneath the shower, letting the water wash over her. She’d turned it down to a sprinkle, like the riddens of a storm, to rain on her bare skin and tap on the stones around her. The air was humid from the steam, so she breathed it in thick.

She could have lain there forever, enjoying a satisfaction and a fullness she could never have captured in a painting. This fragment of time was about the sensation more than the description. The knowledge that she’d opened herself to Adolin, and he had accepted her: flaws, issues, and dreams alike.

Water, stone, and steam …

… the contentment of knowing that all was—briefly—right …

… lazy joyspren, swirling around her like blue leaves …

This was her reward. She let it linger, as Adolin closed a trunk outside and called his goodbye.

With a sigh, Shallan rolled onto her stomach, water beating against her back, and was greeted by a collection of soap bars, cleansing stones, and other bathing paraphernalia. A dozen of them all in a cluster, glowing faintly silver, bouncing up and down.

“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”

“You guys were … watching?” she asked the creationspren.

“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”

Well, nice to have a cheering section, she supposed. She looked up and found Pattern dimpling the stone of the wall.

“Don’t say it,” she told him, climbing to her feet.

“What?” he said. “It’s absolutely allowed, even encouraged now.”

She smiled and finished rinsing, then turned off the water, whispering a little thank-you to the tower as she toweled off. She then searched the wall by Pattern for any sign of Testament.

Nothing. They might still be bonded, but it wasn’t enough to pull Testament through. Shallan’s good mood faded as she imagined her poor spren sitting alone on the other side. I’ll fix it, she thought. I’ll find a way.

First she had work to do. She put on one of Veil’s outfits and crossed the main sitting room. She and Adolin had a prime location with a large balcony adorned with planters, which she stepped out onto, Pattern having taken his customary place on her long white coat.

“Well?” she asked.

One of the planters stood up, Stormlight steaming off as the Lightweaving vanished, revealing a short, bearded man. Gaz no longer wore an eye patch—he’d healed from that wound. But he often rubbed at his eye.

“Got a crook in my neck,” Gaz grumbled, stretching. “But I didn’t spot anything odd. Red, what about you?”

Another planter stood up, a lanky man in bright red suspenders emerging. “Nothing. If they’re going to strike, they’re smart enough not to be obvious.”

Shallan leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. She nodded to Red, who took out a spanreed and clicked it on and off. They didn’t bother writing things out, instead using the flashing ruby—intended for indicating one was done writing—as the actual communication. Windrunners had started developing a code for that.

The door to her rooms opened, and two more of her team entered from the hallway outside, where they’d been hidden. Stargyle—a tall, handsome man with a ready grin—shook his head. Darcira followed, one of the newer members of the Unseen Court. No one had so much as scouted Shallan’s rooms, best any of them could tell. The five of them gathered around her front room table.

“Wit sends word,” Gaz said, pulling over a chair. She could see his Cryptic riding on his shoulder. All of her agents were full Lightweavers, having spoken the First Ideal and at least one truth. None of those here were Shardbearers yet, but Gaz and Red were close. “Your brothers are safe, but Wit wouldn’t even tell me where he took them.”

“We can trust Wit,” Shallan said.

“He won’t join us,” Stargyle said, laying out sketches, “despite being a Lightweaver now. He did give us these.”

“No Lightweaver has to join us,” Red said. “In fact, we’re basically full, ain’t we, Veil?”

Shallan nodded, not wanting to explain the nuance regarding Veil at the moment. Regardless, Red was right. There would be other Lightweavers, but they could form their own family. This group—the Unseen Court—was hers, and she wasn’t going to let it grow unwieldy. Kaladin barely knew the names of half the Windrunners these days.

There were twelve pictures, sketches of the Ghostbloods that Wit had identified. Most of these faces were familiar, but a few were new. Shallan examined two in particular, a woman and a man who wore hoods and masks. Shorter people, with a foreign look to their clothing. Iyatil, master of this cell of Ghostbloods, was an offworlder who always wore a strange wooden mask. Neither of these depictions were of her.

A note at the bottom said, Looks like Iyatil has called in offworlder reinforcements. Watch them. They’re dangerous.

“I scouted the tower earlier, as you said,” Stargyle told her. “I spotted these two in the atrium, but they also caught me watching them. Neither of us moved against one another, and I sensed tension in the way they retreated. It’s like … we’re all waiting for the spark that will light the fire.”

Her eyes lingered on the picture of Mraize, wearing a refined suit, his face ripped by old scars. He had been her teacher. A brutal, manipulative one—but he had seen things in her she hadn’t recognized in herself. He’d pushed her, yes, but also encouraged her. Now they were at last truly enemies. She’d known it was coming, and she hated some of what he represented, like locking Lift in a cage, as she’d heard from Red.

Shallan had chosen her side, but it troubled her that—as seemed inevitable—she was again opposed to her mentor. Her mother, her father, Testament, Tyn, now Mraize. How many people who had cared for her would she have to kill? She let Radiant take over, removing her hat and bleeding her hair to yellow so the others would recognize the transformation.

“So far as we know,” Radiant said, “I have the secret they needed from Kelek—while they do not. They’ll try to extract that information from me. This exposes us to danger, but exposes them as well—because we know their next move.”

“Attacking us,” Gaz said. “Or your family.”

“You are my family, Gaz,” Radiant said. She narrowed her eyes at the sheets. “Fortunately, Shallan has a plan. We’re going to form a strike team.”

“A strike team to do what?” Gaz asked. “Radiant, I’m not afraid to fight, but they have resources from another storming planet and they’re led by some kind of immortal ghost. I don’t know how we fight them.”

Shallan bled back in for a moment and met Gaz’s stare. “Like I said, Gaz, we have the advantage. They need Mishram’s prison for some reason, but we know where it can be found. If we reach it before they do, we can use it as a bargaining chip to secure our safety.”

“There’s more,” Red said. “We’re Radiants. We have something they never will: we’ve spoken truth to ourselves.”

Gaz rubbed his chin, then nodded. “You mentioned armor earlier. Is it true? You have the next Ideal?”

“Yes,” she said, and made armor form around her, lifting her half an inch into the air as the boots encased her feet.

“Neat,” Red said. “You have armor, so now we all have armor.”

“That’s not how it works, Red,” Darcira said, wagging a sketch pencil at him. “We don’t get her powers. Storms, you’re not even her squire anymore—you have your own spren!”

“Yeah, but you heard what Stormblessed did,” Red said, standing up and holding out his arms. “He can share his armor! Make it swoop in and protect people! I’ve always wanted Plate. Can I borrow it, Shallan?”

She hesitated. She’d … only just earned it.

Darcira tapped her sketchpad. “It would be good to know if that works, Brightness.”

A reasonable point. Storming former ardent and her scientific mind. “Fine,” Shallan said. “How do I do it?”

“It seems like it just kind of worked for Kaladin,” Red said.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Darcira said. “Kaladin flew around. You know, like they do. And his armor—made of windspren—swept here and there, enveloping other soldiers when needed.”

“Storming lordship bridgeman,” Gaz muttered, “and his storming heroism.”

They glanced at him.

“He does it just to make me feel bad,” Gaz said.

“He acts like a hero,” Red said, amused, “because it annoys you. Really.”

“Yup,” Gaz said. “Everyone should be grateful to me. If I hadn’t shown those bridgemen tough love, they would never have grown up to be such nauseating paragons of self-righteousness.”

“Weren’t you crying the other month,” Red said, “because of what you did to them?”

“I was drunk,” Gaz said. “You can’t trust a man when he’s drunk. He’ll accidentally say things he ain’t ready to say yet. Anyway, weren’t we going to try out that armor?”

Shallan considered, and pictured the scene. Kaladin with Light streaming off him, sending his armor out to protect.

Sad to miss the invasion, Veil noted.

By all accounts it was awful, Shallan replied.

Yeah, but how nifty would it have been to skulk around the tower while it was under enemy rule?

Hearing her voice, even only in the back of Shallan’s mind, was comforting. It had seemed, right when she’d reintegrated, that Veil would be gone completely, but what good would healing be if it meant losing part of herself—a part she loved—forever? More and more, she was feeling that reintegration wasn’t about rejecting Veil or Radiant, but embracing them and acknowledging in a healthy way that different parts of her had different needs, different goals, different ideas.

For her, this was what healing felt like. Not losing control to her personalities, but also making their strengths part of her. But, back to the matter at hand. She waved her hands at Red and commanded the armor. Go to him.

Shallan! the armor predictably replied.

Him. Go protect him. That guy.

She felt only confusion in response. So, she took Red by the arm and imagined the armor forming around him.

Do that.

Shallan!

The armor emerged around Red, and she didn’t miss that it appeared as she pictured it: with swirls of color like ribbons of wet paint, poured together, all in shades of metallic red. The shape was also slightly different—sleeker, like it could be worn underneath a coat, rather than hulking like Adolin’s Shardplate.

Red laughed in excitement, puffing with an explosive awespren, his voice echoing in the helm. Shallan stepped back. And Red stood there. Motionless. Arms out.

“Um …” Red’s voice said. “I can’t move …”

“You can’t?” Gaz said.

Move, Shallan commanded the armor. It burst apart and vanished.

They tried again. Again, once she stepped away, Red was left motionless. He couldn’t so much as bend his finger.

“Shardplate needs power to move,” Darcira said. “So … maybe it’s not powered?”

“So why does it work for the Windrunners?” Red said, his voice muffled. “This really isn’t fair.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Gaz said. “Shallan, if we tip him over, do you think he’ll just lie there until we get back from breakfast?”

Shallan dismissed the armor, smiling. Shallan? the voices asked. They … were embarrassed.

It’s fine, she projected to them. You’re new to this.

Maybe she could get them some kind of tutoring from … um … other bits of armor?

“Well, I guess no free armor for me,” Red said. “I’ll have to go back to whimpering at night about my dark secrets until I can find a way past them.”

“Is your dark secret that your sense of humor is awful?” Gaz said.

“Nah, that’s out in the open,” Red said, settling at the table. “So … are we actually going to take on the Ghostbloods? Directly?”

Shallan checked the others. They nodded. Even Gaz.

“How do we begin?” Darcira asked.

“Mraize always thinks he has the upper hand,” Radiant said. “He thrives on keeping people off-balance by dangling information like bait. The best way to nullify his advantage is to uncover his secrets. There’s so much we’re ignorant about. Why do they want Mishram’s prison? Why did they get involved so deeply in our politics? So we’re going to find the answers.” She glanced down at the table, at Mraize’s smirking scarred face. “We’re going to do something they don’t think is possible: we’re going to steal those secrets.”

“All right,” Gaz said. “But how?”

“First,” she said, “we need to find their base …”

“What are you doing here?” Dalinar demanded as he caught up to the woman … the god. Damnation, this was her. He’d last seen her in a darkened grove, but her face was exactly the same.

“I go where I please,” she said, sounding amused, a few lifespren drifting around her. “Should I not?”

As before, there was the faintest hint of the sound of crumbling stone to her voice. Her clothing looked as if she had grown the dress from delicate webs of something fine and earthy, and it in places merged back with her skin. Neither effect was as dramatic as it had been in the Valley, perhaps to not draw attention. But he was shaken nonetheless. A Fused trick? Could it …

No. Fused powers wouldn’t work in the tower. This was Cultivation. He stopped beside the metal railing, holding it for support.

“I remember you,” he said.

“I know. You wrote it in your book. I take great pains to remain secret, Dalinar, and you just vomited it all up on a page.” She shook her head.

“Are you here to help?” he said. “Can you tell me how to defeat Odium? Can I use my Bondsmith powers?”

“No, I cannot,” she said. People passed on the balcony, bowing to him or saluting, but ignoring her. She, who was the greater of the two.

“Why not?” he asked. “Why not explain?”

“Haven’t you learned yet? You must find the answers yourself to respect their meaning.”

“Pardon,” he said, “but that’s a load of crem. If you give me the answers, I absolutely promise to respect them.”

She smiled. “Have you wondered why you are a Bondsmith?”

“To unite them,” he said.

“Yes. And what does that mean?”

“Many things, depending on interpretation,” he replied. Then he sighed. “Please just give me an answer?”

She idled beside the railing, tapping it, gazing down at the people of Urithiru below. “Have you ever known Odium to be frightened?”

Had he?

Yes. Once during a crash of transcendent power. A time when he’d sworn he’d heard Evi’s voice, and had become his own man, freed from the past. A time when he’d stared a god in the eyes, slammed his hands together, and merged three realms.

I am Unity.

“Once,” Dalinar said softly.

“I have once as well,” she said. “One time, other than when you faced him. It is deep in the past.” She idly held up her hand, lifespren swirling and playing around it. “You need to take a journey, Dalinar Kholin. A dangerous one, but the path to defeating Odium is not through your powers alone. It is through understanding. You need to see the history of this world, live it.”

“Visions?” he asked. “Like I’ve seen before?”

“Greater,” she said. “Where is Honor?”

“Dead.”

“Tanavast—the Vessel that once held Honor—is dead, but the power remains. Somewhere. It’s a conundrum that few scholars even know to ponder upon. None know what became of Honor’s power. Have you any guesses?”

“It’s the spren, maybe,” Dalinar said.

“Some say that Honor was Splintered by Odium when he killed Tanavast—as he did to others before—becoming the spren, as the power of a god left alone will begin to think.” She shook her head. “But they’re wrong. The spren existed before Tanavast’s death. They are of him, but are not the core of his power. It still exists.” She looked him in the eyes. “It is the power and substance of the visions you were shown, starting years ago. It seeks for men to see their heritage, as it searches for a new Vessel to hold it.”

“Wait,” Dalinar said, a cold shock starting at the base of his skull and washing through him, making him grip the banister. “Wait. What are you saying? That … someone could …?”

“Honor’s power needs a host,” she said. “Whether or not that is you, and whether or not that solves your problems, remain to be seen. However, I’m here to tell you that years ago, you started on a path—and touched the power of Honor each highstorm when you saw a vision. The path to defeating Odium is the same one you’re walking. You simply need to see better, farther, and deeper into the past.”

“Could you not fight him?”

“I have my own battles,” she said, turning to trail away. “I cannot fight yours, but you now know where the power hides. Seek the Spiritual Realm, where gods dwell. You have the ability to get there, perhaps even the ability to return. There you will receive the final truths of the Heralds, the Radiants, and Honor himself. Go and seek it, Dalinar Kholin, if you would finish this journey.”

She walked a short distance, until darkness swallowed her, and she vanished in a pop of lifespren. Dalinar walked back to the others, who were surrounded by shockspren. Without a word, he pointed upward. Sigzil Lashed him and he went soaring, two Windrunners joining him. Only when he was already in the air did he realize he’d left his bodyguard behind yet again. Well, Colot could take the lift.

The Spiritual Realm. The powers of gods.

Stormfather, he thought as he soared higher, did you sense that conversation?

He felt a rumbling in the back of his mind. Confusion.

Cultivation was here, Dalinar said. Just now.

What? the Stormfather said, suddenly present fully in Dalinar’s mind, making the air warp nearby. Incredible. She almost never leaves her hiding place.

You didn’t sense her?

She hides from Odium, he sent. Which means none of us can sense her either. She must have come to see what was happening with the Sibling. Cultivation was ever fond of them.

Cultivation told me, Dalinar said, that Honor’s power still exists in the Spiritual Realm—that it is the substance of the visions I’ve seen. She says I should seek answers there.

The Stormfather rumbled softly. A dangerous kind of thunder, distant, but warning of imminent violence.

Would you take that step, Dalinar? the spren asked. Do you seek to lose yourself in the past?

They reached the top floors of Urithiru. Dalinar—having done this dozens of times—knew to grab the railing and swing over into the staging room where the lifts arrived. He held to the railing until Sigzil canceled his Lashing, letting Dalinar settle to the ground.

I seek only to protect my people, Dalinar thought. He gripped the banister, looking down hundreds of feet. A vertigo-inspiring sight. He’d felt as though he’d been standing at a precipice for years now, a single step from demise. Once, if he’d trembled before a battle, it had been with excitement. Now it was because of the daunting realization that everything rested upon him. By his design.

If he lost this contest …

I can see that you are nervous, the Stormfather said. Good. Confidence in a mortal should only go so far. What else did Cultivation tell you?

Just that the Spiritual Realm has answers, Dalinar said. That I can get there with my powers. That I should seek the truths of history, and of Honor.

The Stormfather rumbled, sounding annoyed by this.

What? Dalinar asked.

I’ve shown you what you need, he replied. Too much more is dangerous.

Wait, Dalinar thought. There is more? Could I see how the Heralds were chosen? How people came to Roshar? Could I see what caused Honor to die?

The Stormfather rumbled softly, and sounded even angrier.

Cultivation indicated I should seek these answers, Dalinar said.

I did not think she would interfere except in her usual way, the Stormfather said. That of making tiny nudges that require decades to mature. I will have to think on it. Her suggestion is dangerous, Dalinar. Too dangerous. Take care.

With that, the Stormfather turned his attention elsewhere. The shimmering to the air vanished, and the spren’s presence retreated to a faint awareness in the very back of his mind.

Storms. He was tired of vague promises and hints. He was tired of gods moving among them unnoticed. He wanted answers. He trudged toward the meeting room, joined by the two Windrunners. Inside, he saw that Jasnah had indeed beaten him to the top—early for the meeting as he was. Wit sat on the floor at the rear, holding a scroll of paper in one hand and some kind of white bone in the other.

“What’s he doing?” Dalinar asked Jasnah.

“Something’s wrong,” she explained, arms folded as she watched him. “He had an encounter with Odium that he only just remembered—which means Odium altered his memories. That, for reasons he hasn’t explained, makes him think there are loopholes in the contract that Odium is exploiting.”

“There can’t be,” Dalinar said. “Odium promised me—confirmed true by Wit himself—that he wouldn’t use any loopholes. That the soul of the contract was more important.”

Jasnah shook her head. “We’ll get answers from Wit—if we’re lucky—on his timeline, not ours.” She seemed expressly annoyed with Wit.

“Well,” Dalinar said, getting out battle maps and waving in the generals waiting outside, “let’s get an accurate accounting of our troop placements so we can be ready to present to the monarchs. We have much to organize and plan …”

Wind and Truth

Wind and Truth

What I learned from their glyphs scribbled in dust trembled my soul: it was because of me, and the stories they’d heard of my teachings, that they had left.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

The first signs of light shone through the atrium as Adolin walked to the lifts. After his time with Shallan, he’d made a detour to check on Gallant, and would arrive at the meeting right on schedule.

Many common people were being forced to wait in line for lifts until the monarchs had gathered. He spotted someone unexpected among them.

“Colot?” he asked, noting the Cobalt Guardsman.

“Adolin,” Colot said, looking embarrassed. He was lighteyed, with yellow-green eyes. Former Windrunner squire. Many squires had to wait months to get spren, which were in short supply—but most were happy to do so. He didn’t know why Colot had given up and left before getting one.

“You all right?” Adolin asked him.

“Fine. Your father just managed to give me the slip again.”

Adolin groaned softly. “I thought he was getting better at bringing his guards.”

“I don’t think he did it intentionally. He simply got distracted.” Colot gave a shrug.

“I’ll talk to him,” Adolin said.

“Please don’t, Adolin. Bodyguards are nothing more than a bother for him these days. Just …” Colot took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my way up once the important people are taken care of.”

“Nah, you’re coming with me,” Adolin said, pulling him out of the line. Adolin spotted a lift being loaded with a group of figures in colorful Azish clothing, soldiers keeping everyone else at a safe distance. Adolin gave a shout and ran for the lift, towing Colot behind him. Before the attendants could close the gate, the emperor himself—swathed in thick robes and wearing a headdress several feet wide—raised his hand, pausing them.

Adolin and Colot hopped onto the lift, and Adolin nodded to the emperor in thanks. It was crowded full of Azish dignitaries. Wherever Emperor Yanagawn went, he had to bring viziers, servants, functionaries, servants to the functionaries …

The lift started creeping up the wall of the atrium. Then it picked up speed. Within seconds, they were going so fast that Adolin felt the wind of it—something that had never happened before the tower’s awakening. At this rate, the ride to the top would take barely a few minutes.

“Highprince Adolin,” Yanagawn said from the center of his retinue. “Might I have a word?”

Nearby, several of the viziers glanced at one another, though none said anything. The young emperor wasn’t technically supposed to speak to anyone beneath him, but he and Adolin had interacted on and off during the year since the Battle of Thaylen Field. Yanagawn had started talking to Adolin directly.

“Your Excellency?” Adolin said, stepping closer as several guards reluctantly made space for him.

“You saw the armies advancing on my homeland,” Yanagawn said. “The report is that they are … vast?”

“It’s a pretty decent invasion force,” Adolin admitted. “Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand.”

“We have a fraction of that in the capital,” Yanagawn said. “Most of our armies are out on campaign.” He shook his head, seated in his chair amid them all. They carried a seat for him wherever he went—and sometimes they carried him upon it. “We thought we’d be safe after driving the enemy back in Emul. Even with the contest, will it ever end?”

“I wish I knew, Your Excellency.”

Yanagawn was in many ways baffling to Adolin—a figurehead more than a king. Like a Soulcast statue, powerful in station, but somehow personally impotent. Jasnah thought this was a good thing; Adolin had tried to follow her explanations why. It made sense when she talked about checks on absolute power, but Jasnah could make anything sound reasonable. It was one of her gifts.

“You fight directly for your people,” Yanagawn said softly to him. “With sword in hand. Are you ever frightened you won’t be strong enough, Highprince?”

“You can call me Adolin, if you’d like.”

“I … cannot offer you the same courtesy.”

“I understand,” Adolin said. “And in answer to your question: yes. I get storming terrified that I’ll fail again. Kholinar fell when I was sent to save it. Not a day passes that I haven’t thought about that.”

It was a constant pain—like a stretched muscle that refused to heal. The type of stealth pain that didn’t ache until you moved the wrong way, and suddenly it flared up—a sharp spike in your side. He would remember activating the Oathgate. Leaving wounded soldiers behind, an entire city full of people that he was supposed to have rescued. His cousin Elhokar dead on the stones …

Yeah, that one storming hurt.

“How do you bear it?” Yanagawn asked.

“Exercise helps,” Adolin said. “Training with my sword, clearing my mind.”

“Sometimes I think it is a blessing that my station doesn’t let me fight,” Yanagawn said. Storms, his Alethi was so good. He had an accent, yes, but he’d only been practicing for a year or so. “I do not make the tactical decisions, and so the burden of failure is not my own. At other times, I find myself a coward.”

“It’s not cowardly to know your own limitations, Excellency,” Adolin said.

“Maybe,” Yanagawn said, then smiled fondly. “Do you know my background, Adolin?”

“I believe you were a darkeyes … er, whatever you call it … before your elevation.”

“A commoner, yes,” he said. “A thief. And not a very good one at that.”

More side glances from the viziers. Noura, their foremost, stepped closer. “Pardon, Excellency and Highness, but that is the path Yaezir put you upon, and is how you were to be manifest to us via miracle.”

“That doesn’t change what I was, Noura.”

“Yes, Excellency,” she said. “But dwelling on what you were, instead of what you are, never gets a person far.”

Adolin nodded. He could never have lived with so many attendants, but Noura … she was at least thoughtful.

“I mention it,” Yanagawn said, “not to dwell upon it, but to remember a time when I was commonly put into dangerous situations. I did not handle it well then. I often wonder … how would I handle it now?” He looked to Noura, and Adolin saw in him the man—not the youth. He was older than Adolin had been when he’d first won his Shardblade.

This fellow, Adolin thought, needs a good session training with the sword.

It wasn’t Adolin’s place to say so, not here. So he held his tongue as the lift reached the top, and they stepped out. It was time to decide how they were going to face this threat.

Radiant leaned back against the wall of the lift atrium’s ground floor. Courtesy of Shallan’s Lightweaving, she wore the face of a crem scraper. He was a man with long features, drooping as if waxen.

Adolin got on the lift with the Azish contingent, while Isom—the Lightweaver she’d tasked with tailing him—gave a covert signal, indicating he’d take the next lift up. Shallan had been worried when Isom reported Adolin hadn’t gone straight to the meeting. Of course he’d gone to check on his horse. Again.

She’d already sent Stargyle up to join the monarchs, officially representing the Unseen Court, so Adolin should be well guarded. Besides, surely the enemy wouldn’t try something in the middle of a meeting of kings, queens, and a bunch of Radiants.

You’ve done what you can there, Veil said.

Now her plans depended on one of her Lightweavers being able to tail a Ghostblood to their current hideout. Gaz was with her, wearing the face of a young woman who sold rockbud flowers in the market. One of his better sketches—and better disguises, as it made use of his shorter height.

“No reports of Ghostbloods tailing any of our people today,” Gaz said softly. His Lightweaving had progressed far enough that his voice was starting to modulate as well as his image. “They haven’t even attacked the horse. You think they’re waiting to make us placid?”

Radiant considered. “No. They don’t want to draw attention. A petty strike at someone Shallan loves would give them a moment of satisfaction, but would bring the full weight of Dalinar’s anger down on them. Mraize is more subtle than that.”

Gaz grunted, a sound that did not match the face he was wearing. He needed more practice. To that end, now that she had checked on Adolin, Radiant gave way to Shallan, who slouched further, shoved her hands in her pockets, and started chewing on her lip—all very un-Shallan-like behaviors—to help sell the disguise.

“No threats,” Shallan whispered with a man’s voice. “No contact. I’d hoped we could stop a strike against one of us, then tail the perpetrators. This silence is unnerving. We need to find out what they’re up to, Gaz.”

“We have agents watching tower entrances and major corridors,” Gaz said. “But even with our paid informants, I can’t guarantee we’ll pick up a Ghostblood’s trail.”

Shallan nodded as she chewed her lip, thoughtful. “Ghostbloods won’t be able to stay away from today’s developments. They didn’t interfere with Adolin, but they’re watching. They’ll be doing the same for Dalinar, Navani, and anyone else they think might know something. Eventually one of us will spot someone to follow.”

Gaz nodded slowly, relaxing against the wall with a leisurely air. Shob, one of the other Lightweavers, would be here in a few minutes with his report. In the past, Gaz had scratched at his stubble and spent half his time nervously checking his former blind spot. Both actions were far less common while he was in disguise, as he’d tempered the behaviors.

“You’re getting better at this,” Shallan noted.

“Thanks,” he said. “I needed something to do with my time.”

“How’s the gambling?”

He shrugged.

“How much in debt are you this week?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“That’s an improvement.”

“Only because I managed to stay away completely,” he said. “That advice you gave about giving myself a budget and only losing that much?”

“Yes?” she said, eager.

“It was storming useless,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Oh.”

“If I start gambling, I stop caring,” he said. “That’s always been the problem. It’s why I wound up in the bridge crews, under the thumb of a pair of petty lighteyes. It’s why I ended up deserting. No budget will work for me. Just gotta do somethin’ else.”

“Is that difficult?” she asked, thinking of her brother who had the same problem. Maybe what worked for Gaz would help Jushu.

“Yeah. I used to spend all my days planning how to score,” he said. “Strategies—most of them useless. I’d build up in my mind how each play would be one gust in what became a storm of winnings, digging me out of my problems. Each win felt good, like I was taking a step toward being worth something.”

Disgustspren, like orange corkscrews drilling downward, appeared around him as he continued. “It’s not the gambling itself that got me. It’s that I built up how it would feel to win, only to come crashing down each time, leaving me feeling like I’d missed out on something I was owed. That made me dull to everything else. Till I was a man without a heart, sending boys off to die each day on those bridge runs.”

“And then …”

“I found you all,” he said. “People who care about me.”

“And the power of being loved,” Shallan said softly, a smile rising on her lips, “gave you the strength to resist.”

“What?” He belted out a laugh, half his voice, half that of his illusion. “What kind of storming crem is that! The power of being loved? Ha! No, Stargyle and Red went to every gambling den in the whole storming tower and threatened the folks that run them! Said if anyone let me in, Stargyle would rip their toenails off and wear them as a necklace. When I came by, the staff wouldn’t even talk to me!”

“Well,” she said, “that is the power of being loved. Simply, um, a different hue.”

“A tough kind of love.”

“A toe-uf kind of love.”

He looked at her.

“Toe,” she said. “For feet. Toenails.”

He just kept staring at her.

“Hey, I’m out of practice,” she said. “There was this whole thing with another personality almost manifesting, and it didn’t leave time for witticisms. Anyway, remind me to send Red and Stargyle a thank-you note.”

“Storming fools,” Gaz grumbled. “But it worked. After a while, my mind found other ways to spend its time. The work we do, that’s got more of a real thrill to it: the plans, the watching, the tailing. Now the strategies I think of are actually accomplishing something.” He checked his belt, where one of their spanreeds was blinking. “Damnation. That’s Shob. He’s spotted a Ghostblood. You were right.”

“I always am.” She paused. “Except with gambling advice.”

“And jokes.”

“My jokes are incredible. They might need to be honed a little, but well, even a dull knife can kill someone.”

He ran his hand through his fake hair. “That explains so much …”

“It does?”

“If you push hard enough with a dull knife …”

“It can still be painful.”

“And if you keep trying with bad jokes …”

“The same.” She hesitated. “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

He grinned. “Let’s go see what Shob found.”

Wind and Truth

They’d gone to seek a land some told them was mythical.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Adolin and the Azish emperor left most of the attendants in the antechamber as they joined the meeting. By tradition, Yanagawn picked up his own seat and carried it in, and Adolin did the same, grabbing one from outside. Navani and Dalinar liked the symbolism.

Inside, Adolin did a quick count of those in attendance, and saw he and Yanagawn were last. His father and aunt were there, as were Jasnah and Queen Fen. A few Radiant representatives, including Sigzil for the Windrunners and Stargyle for the Lightweavers, were placing their seats. There were also a couple of the lesser kings—or “primes” as they called them—from the Azish Empire. The Mink had come as well—the short Herdazian who was their key strategist. And possibly, following the fall of his kingdom, Herdaz’s ranking lighteyes. Even if he was actually darkeyed.

The meeting was rounded out by three other Alethi highprinces, a group of scribes, and several generals and important leaders—like Prince Kmakl and Noura the vizier. And of course there was Wit, sitting in the corner with a scroll across his lap. Aunt Navani waved, and all the gathered emotion spren in the room flew out—to not distract. Adolin closed the door. Maybe he should have greeted his father, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks. He glanced toward Dalinar.

No. After how they’d parted, they’d do the proper thing: ignore it and let it fester.

Mere seconds after he’d closed the door, there was a knock on it. Adolin peeked, then pulled it all the way open as one of the guards gestured to an older Reshi man wearing a loose robe that showed a powerful chest and a strong build. Adolin thought he was one of the leaders of their islands who had been visiting the tower these last few months.

They’d never invited him to any of their meetings. The man didn’t ask; he simply picked up a chair and stood outside, waiting with his son, who often wore Thaylen clothing.

Adolin glanced into the chamber. This man was king to only a few hundred, less powerful in his sphere than a lower Alethi landowner. He was Radiant—the sole Dustbringer left in the tower—but not many Radiants got to join the meeting.

There was silence for a moment before the Mink spoke. “We have a saying, in Herdaz,” he said. “No cousin is so distant they stop being family. A king of a small land is still a king.”

“Please, enter,” Dalinar said, nodding and waving to the Reshi king. “Though I warn you, much of what we discuss might be confusing without prior context.”

The man said nothing, carrying his chair and placing it at the back of the room, with several of the lesser Azish primes. He sat with a regal air—and honestly, Adolin doubted he spoke much Alethi. His presence seemed symbolic. Adolin closed the door again.

“That’s it,” Fen said. “Everyone is here. Can we finally begin? My kingdom is facing an entire fleet.”

“Mine,” Yanagawn said, “is about to be invaded through a portal into the heart of my city! And sooner than yours!”

“The Everstorm can bring the enemy fleet to my city in just a day,” Fen said. “We saw that last time!”

“Please,” Dalinar said. “We will get to everyone’s defenses. First, let’s establish where our forces currently stand.”

“I agree,” Fen said. “But I do want to make a point, Dalinar. This is your fault. You should have insisted that the borders freeze the moment the deal was struck.”

She was right, of course, but this was how it was with Adolin’s father. Dalinar was a great man, yes, but he was confident in his greatness. Which led him to assume he could solve any problem himself.

“I’m sorry, Fen,” Dalinar said. “I’m doing my best.”

“Your best is going to see my kingdom conquered while you protect yours! You practically ensured war these ten days.”

Silence. Eyes condemning. This is what you deserve, Father, Adolin thought, feeling the room turn—like spears lowered at a captured enemy—against Dalinar. You always barrel forward. Doing whatever you want. Consequences be storming damned. Like you did years ago, killing my mother. And you never bothered to tell me. You—

“You did well, Dalinar Kholin,” Yanagawn said. “We agreed to let you stand for us, and you found us a solution. Thank you.”

Adolin frowned, looking at the Azish emperor. His homeland was facing invasion. Why was he so calm?

“Because of you,” Yanagawn continued, “we have a chance. The enemy can be reborn again and again, but with the contest, peace is actually possible.”

“I failed you in the short term,” Dalinar said. “Armies are coming for your homeland.”

“As they were three days ago,” Yanagawn said. “And the weeks before that. All that has changed is that you have ensured there is an end in sight. Yes, the contract could have been a little better, but I think every Azish person in this room can admit that even with important documents, you always miss something.”

“Well that’s storming true,” Sigzil said, laughing.

“You’re right, Yanagawn,” Fen said with a grumble. “Dalinar, I was too harsh. We did agree to let you make the decision, and you did all you could. I shouldn’t grouse about what could have been, but my homeland only just started to recover from the last attack.”

“We merely need to hold out, Fen,” Yanagawn said. “For eight more days. Then we have peace.”

Storms. With that, the tone of the room changed again. Or perhaps Adolin hadn’t been reading it correctly in the first place. People nodded. Fen sat up a little straighter. And Dalinar … Dalinar met Yanagawn’s eyes, then bowed his head in a sign of respect and thanks.

When had the young emperor learned such maturity? Or … perhaps Adolin should be wondering why he hadn’t learned the same.

“Very well,” Dalinar said. “Let’s discuss our positions. Stargyle, you up to making a map with me?”

“Yes, sir,” the Lightweaver said. “After the last few weeks of practice, I think I can manage it.”

“Good,” Dalinar said. “We’ll begin in Emul, with—”

“Holy hell,” a voice said from the corner.

Adolin frowned, trying to figure out those words and how they fit together. The group parted, revealing Wit sitting in the corner, holding that paper and what looked like a bone. “It’s not possible,” Wit said, louder.

Adolin glanced toward Jasnah, who shook her head, as confused as he was.

“I’m an idiot,” Wit said.

“Wit?” Dalinar asked. “Are you—”

Wit leapt to his feet. “I’m an absolute fool! The most awe-inspiring, spectacular example of idiocy this side of the cosmere. So grand, I should be immortalized in song. The type that drunk men sing before they puke, mixing the rancid contents of their poisoned stomachs with my name.”

“Wit,” Dalinar said firmly. “Explain yourself.”

Well, that seemed like an invitation for mockery. Adolin braced himself, but when Wit spoke his voice was serious.

“There are loopholes in this agreement,” Wit explained. “I’m sorry; I failed you all. I was supposed to shepherd the process of creating this contract. I could have seen exactly where these attacks would land, if I’d been more keen-eyed.”

He said it solemnly. Quietly. What could make Wit be so … normal?

“How could you have guessed they’d strike at Thaylen City?” Fen asked.

“Because it’s in this agreement,” Wit said, “blatant as my own nose. As you all know, Dalinar was forced a little off script in creating this three days ago.”

“Odium insisted he couldn’t accept the deal as presented,” Dalinar said to the room. “Because he can no longer keep the Fused imprisoned.”

“Locking them away is no longer viable,” Wit agreed, “with the Oathpact broken and the Everstorm in place. Regardless, Dalinar going off script led to this situation—where the enemy has one last chance to grab lands.”

“Which is why we’ve been expecting an attack on the borders in strategically valuable places,” the Mink said, standing beside Dalinar. “If they expand the size of Alethkar, for example, but then we win it back … well, their attack was wasted. So we assumed some encroachment from Jah Keved on the Frostlands, or maybe another push into Emul or Tashikk. Key is that Alethkar and Herdaz are ours, forever, if Dalinar wins.”

The Herdazian looked to Dalinar and nodded in respect. Adolin hadn’t heard all the details of the contract, but he’d been told that Dalinar had specifically singled out Herdaz for freedom. The mark of a promise kept.

Dalinar nodded back. Adolin’s father was standing—because of course he’d forgotten to bring his chair. Despite the grand philosophies he espoused, Dalinar was always an exception to the rules. Even his own.

Storms, Adolin thought, acknowledging the bitterness lacing his thoughts. I’m really, really letting this go too far.

He knew it. But he couldn’t stop it.

“The Mink is right,” Dalinar said. “Whatever happens, Odium keeps the lands that surrendered to him, such as Iri, Jah Keved, and Marat. We keep whatever we hold when the deadline arrives. Strikes against Thaylen City and Azimir are not completely outrageous—but they don’t seem a smart choice. Why risk everything on capturing our strongholds when it’s much more possible to grab land at the perimeter?”

“Because,” Wit whispered, “if he takes the capitals, he gets the kingdoms. In their entirety.”

“Wait,” Yanagawn said. “What did you say?”

“I realized earlier that I might have missed something,” Wit said. “So, I sent a request to one of the best contract negotiators I know. Frost. Tall fellow. Big as a house, actually. Sharp teeth. Fondness for chastising me, which shows he has good judgment. He refused to help, as he insists he will not intervene, but his sister is as smart as he is, and she listened. I read her the contract, and she needed access to the Alethi legal code. That’s what I’ve been doing for these past hours—reading her laws, talking her through it, asking for her explanations.”

“And you did this … right here?” Navani asked. “How?”

Wit held up the little bone, as if that explained everything. “The general idea is this: In Dalinar’s negotiations, he argued for the return of Alethkar and Herdaz. Entire kingdoms. Then he agreed to Odium’s request: Odium can try for entire kingdoms with his attacks. By Alethi law, this means that he has to capture their seat of power. So …”

“So he throws everything he has at Azimir,” Yanagawn whispered. “Because if he can take it, he claims the kingdom. That’s what you’re saying?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Wit said.

Oh, Damnation, Adolin thought. The room fell silent.

“He promised me,” Dalinar whispered, “that there would be no taking advantage of loopholes. That he would hold to the spirit of the contest. You had to dig through the Alethi legal code for hours to find this. It sounds a lot like a loophole to me.”

“Yes,” Wit said. “And that’s why I’m an idiot. Not because I missed the intricacies of the legal code—but because this isn’t something that Rayse could ever do. It’s not only against his nature, it’s something he promised he would not do. Even without a formal covenant, a god cannot break that kind of promise without dire consequences.”

“So … what?” Dalinar said. “I’m missing something.”

“As are we all,” Wit said with a sigh. “Odium is exploiting a loophole in your agreement. Rayse wouldn’t do that. Rayse couldn’t do that. So …” He looked around the room, meeting their eyes. “So we are not facing Rayse. My old enemy must be dead, and someone else has taken up the Shard of Odium. I should have seen it the moment he started acting so oddly, but now I’ve confirmed it by sensing the rhythms of Roshar. My friends, we are facing an enemy we do not know and cannot anticipate. And whoever it is, they’re a genius—one who has devised a ploy to conquer all of Roshar in ten days.”

“All right,” Shob said, huddling in an alcove with Shallan and Gaz up on the third floor. “Look at these.”

Shallan and Gaz had taken different faces, all three of them now appearing like Herdazian workers. Gaz had a real sparkflicker on his finger, with some flint to fake working it. Shob blew his nose, then set out some pages for them on the ground. It was quieter here, with less traffic, though sound still echoed up through the nearby atrium.

“Oi was watching the atrium region,” Shob said. “Like you said. Oi spotted someone spyin’ on Dalinar as he talked to some Makabaki woman. The Ghostblood was this one here.”

Shallan took the page, a sketch of a short Alethi or Veden woman Hoid had identified as a Ghostblood, but not one Shallan had ever met. At the bottom he’d written: former actor, recruited recently.

Actor, eh? She supposed that wasn’t an unusual recruitment tactic for a secretive organization.

“You set a tail on her?” Shallan asked.

“Darcira is followin’ right now,” Shob said, rubbing his nose again. The man was always bemoaning some ailment or another—none of which were ever as debilitating as he thought. He was good at his job though. This was a solid lead.

The Ghostbloods regularly set up, then abandoned bases. They were also fantastically good at losing tails, but a new recruit? This seemed a weak point.

Shob leaned back, complaining about his stomach while Shallan looked over the sketch once more, noting the woman’s tattoo peeking out through her freehand sleeve. Hoid’s sketches were excellent.

Shallan rubbed her wrist, where she’d refused to get one of those same tattoos. She flipped through the sketches and pulled out the picture of Mraize: tall and distinguished—scarred and proud of it. She … didn’t hate him. For all his threats and manipulations, he was too complex a man to be hated. She felt frustration mixed with envy, accompanied by a bitter sadness about what could perhaps have been.

She would have to kill him. As she’d killed Tyn. As she’d killed her father. But she would not enjoy it.

The next sketch was Iyatil in her mask. Even the sketch of her was shadowed, and Hoid noted he didn’t catch sight of her often. The next two pictures were those masked newcomers—assassins brought in from Iyatil’s homeland, wearing wooden masks painted in a way that made them feel … featureless. Just shapes and lines, not people, except for those eyes staring out, and the mouths barely exposed at the bottom.

As she was studying those pictures a soldier strolled past and glanced at Shallan’s group. Gaz casually held up one of the pages to be more visible, but it suddenly depicted a busty woman in a state of complete undress. Shallan blushed, drawing a shamespren despite herself. The soldier chuckled and moved on.

“Gaz,” she hissed.

“What?” he said. “You have a better way to explain a bunch of street sweepers gathered around some papers?”

“Where did you even get that image!”

“Drew it myself,” he said, with a grunt. “You said we should take them art lessons. Gotta get the musculature right to learn proper Lightweaving.”

“I know that!” she said, recalling some experiences in her youth. She shooed away that shamespren in the shape of a red flower petal. “But … my models were never quite so … um …”

“Oi think somethin’s wrong with my heart,” Shob said from beside them, lying on his back now, eyes closed. “Oi think it stopped beating. Can’t feel it. Is that normal?” Shallan didn’t give it much thought—Shob was merely being his usual overdramatic self.

Gaz shook the page so the image vanished, returning to a depiction of a Ghostblood. “You want me to invite you next time we do a drawing session?”

“Storms, no,” Shallan said, still blushing. “You’re not supposed to stare at models. It’s unprofessional.”

“I don’t think those ladies and fellows mind,” Shob said. “On account of their other jobs.”

Storms. Well, she did need anatomy practice. She put that out of her head as Shob groaned and sat up, then wagged a blinking spanreed with a message from Darcira. They counted out the blinks silently, interpreting the message. New Ghostbloods hideout found. Narak. I watch.

“Narak?” Gaz said softly. “Why so far away?”

“The tower is awake now,” Shallan said. “Perhaps the Sibling could locate them for us if they were closer.”

“Should we hit them with a strike team?” Gaz asked. “Gather some troops—put some Windrunners to good use for once?”

“We should gather one,” Shallan said. “Adolin should have gotten us permission. But striking won’t do much good unless we know Mraize and Iyatil are inside. Plus, like I said earlier, we need to find out what they’re planning.”

“Which means …” Gaz said.

“We’ll use a strike team, yes,” Shallan said. “But we’re going to sneak in first.”

Gaz nodded and collected the pictures, then headed out. Shob was lying down again. Shallan had always found his antics ridiculous, but today … today she hesitated, then tapped him on the foot while he looked up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Hey, you all right?”

“Oi know Oi probably am,” he replied. “Oi know it’s just in my head, all these things Oi feel. So yeah, Oi suppose. It ain’t real.”

Shallan suddenly felt guilty. She’d dismissed his attitude as silly earlier. How many would call what she dealt with “silly”?

“Hey,” she said. “Feeling real is enough. The things in our heads can be some of the most important things in our lives. Love is in our heads. Confidence. Integrity. All things we make up, but they’re still very important.”

He sat up. “And me feelin’ sick all the time? Is that good, like love or integrity?”

“Probably not,” she said. “But it being in your head doesn’t mean we should ignore it. You need any help?”

He cocked his head, illusion covering his face, but his eyes—his expressions—showed his true self. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. You know? In years, nobody’s asked me that? Yeah. Yeah, Oi think Oi could use some help.” He hesitated. “But Oi don’t know. Sometimes … when people listen to me … it gets worse. Oi just start thinkin’ of more things wrong, then ask for more and more sympathy. Till Oi hate myself, and everyone hates me.”

“Ignoring the problem isn’t the solution though,” Shallan said. “Trust me. When we’re done with all this, let’s see if we can find someone who can help. There has to be an ardent or a surgeon or someone.”

“Okay,” he said, rising. “Oi think Oi just felt a heartbeat. So maybe Oi will survive long enough.” He glanced at her, then paused. “Oi say exaggerations of what Oi feel like that because they’re funny. Makes people think Oi’m jokin’. So they don’t hate me, you know?”

She took his hand, squeezed it, and nodded.

“You still want me watchin’ here?” he asked.

She nodded again. “Thanks for spotting that Ghostblood, but I want another set of eyes on that meeting up above. Outside, in the room with the guards, listening to what they’re chattering about.” Shob was excellent at that kind of information-gathering, but his skill set wasn’t aligned with attacking enemies, as she was planning to try next.

“Then Oi’d better find a lift up,” he said. Then he glanced at her. “You … pay better attention now. What happened on that trip?”

“I found a few pieces of myself,” she said, “that I’d lost.”

Wind and Truth

A land where the king was a holy man, and was concerned with the plight of the farmer beyond the appropriation of taxes.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Szeth-son-Honor continued to wear white clothing.

That was no longer mandated. Dalinar had said he could wear what he wanted, and though Szeth was a Skybreaker, he had no uniform. Even during training and official functions, they’d wear the uniform of the local guard or constables.

Still, Szeth wore filmy white clothing that flapped in the wind as they flew. Still, Szeth shaved his head each day, and found the faintest prickle of stubble on his scalp an annoyance. Did he do these things because he wanted to, or because they were now tradition? Life could be so full of distracting, meaningless small decisions while the large ones—such as determining his duty to his people—were so hard.

So he pretended it was right to continue his routines. If they were wrong—if instead he should have a preference among many tiny options … well, that made him shudder to his core.

He did like flying though. During the days training with the Honorblades in his youth, taking to the sky had appealed to him most of all the powers. He and Kaladin-son-Lirin had flown far with the storm, before sleeping in a coalition camp near the base of the mountains.

Now, at last, they approached the Misted Mountains at the edge of Shinovar. They avoided the northern border, where Shin had been loosing arrows at anyone who drew too close. Szeth figured these southern farmlands would be better. It was also close to where he’d grown up, so he knew the region.

Within the rushing of the wind and the flapping of clothing in flight, he could not hear the voices whispering or screaming from the shadows. They’d been quiet for some time, so he thought he’d escaped them. It turned out they’d simply been lying in wait.

“Is that the pass?” Kaladin’s voice came to him, cutting through the noise, perfectly audible. Windrunning permitted sculpting airflow. Such conveniences were no longer available to Szeth. Nale had granted him leave to use Division, now that Szeth had reached the Third Ideal. Unfortunately, Szeth’s spren had so far forbidden him the art, although he had the skill. His spren said the time wasn’t right.

Regardless, it was the correct pass, and seeing it made Szeth tremble. He and Kaladin lowered to some twenty feet off the ground, then proceeded, mountains on either side. They passed stonewalker plants for now—short, stout trees with leaves pulled in before the wind. Grass in tufts behind boulders or lying low in burrows.

But soon … soon they’d see …

Soil. Dirt breaking the stone. Mud running alongside washes, sediment filling the bottom of fissures. Here was where the highstorms finally surrendered, Shinovar bringing the great eastern tyrant of the skies to his knees. A place where the lazy rainfall—like a corpse that had already bled out—no longer contained the minerals that hardened into cremstone.

Here life could truly flourish. Szeth’s breath caught, and two gloryspren appeared above him, as he spotted mosses growing on rocks, leading to a few scraggly weeds alongside the wash. Szeth cried out despite himself and canceled his Lashings, dropping with a thump to this patch of soil. After so many, many years, his booted feet fell not on blasphemous stone.

He hadn’t realized how it would overwhelm him. He fell to his knees before the dandelions and stared at them.

Kaladin alighted on a rock nearby, confusionspren—like streaks of violet extending from a central point—expanding behind him. He couldn’t know how beautiful this tiny plant was. Szeth reached out with trembling fingers and touched leaves that didn’t pull back.

“What’s wrong with that plant?” Kaladin asked. “Is this a sign of the problems in your homeland?”

“No,” Szeth whispered. “It is merely a weed. The most beautiful of weeds …”

Kaladin glanced to the side, where his spren landed and appeared as a full-sized human in a skirted Bridge Four uniform, leggings underneath reaching down to mid-thigh. Szeth had not asked why she chose that form. It was not for him to question.

“Szeth,” said a voice.

His spren. A highspren.

He still did not know its name. It had never been offered. It was not a distinction the highspren gave lightly, though some other Skybreakers had been granted the names of their spren.

“This emotion is unfitting of your station,” the spren said, audible and visible only to him. “Do not spoil your dignity with base sentimentality. You serve the law.”

Szeth, with effort, forced his hand away from the plant. He stood up. Voices. Had there ever been a time when his life hadn’t been ruled by voices? Would he even know what to do if they stopped?

“You all right?” Kaladin said, hopping off his rock.

Oh, I’m fine! said the sword strapped to Szeth’s back. Thank you. Nobody has been paying attention to me today, but I’m famously patient. It comes from being a sword.

Kaladin ignored the comment, stepping closer to Szeth.

“My spren,” Szeth said, “wishes me to show better composure. I obey.”

Szeth did not ask an explanation of the spren. He was Truthless no longer, but he still did as his masters required. He simply trusted that in the highspren and Dalinar, he had chosen better masters.

He stepped away as Kaladin knelt by the plant, Syl bending down next to him. The rising sun behind sent sunlight streaming through this valley into Shinovar, the land that swallowed that sun each night. Light created shadows—in the leeward side of stones, in crevices, and beneath the very blades of grass. As soon as he saw that, the whispers started once more.

Voices of those he’d killed. Condemning him.

Kaladin poked the plant with his toe. Then again. “I knew about these,” he said to his spren. “Everyone mentions them. But it’s so strange. Shouldn’t it have been eaten by something?”

“Maybe it tastes really bad,” Syl said. “Maybe that’s why there are fewer proper plants in Shinovar. Our plants get eaten first, because they’re delicious.” She leaned over farther and tapped the plant, proving substantial enough to make it quiver.

“It’s like a painting,” Kaladin whispered.

“Or a statue,” Syl said. “You think it was Soulcast? That it was once a real plant, and someone made it into this?”

Kaladin shook his head, then lifted his boot. Szeth found it amusing how Kaladin rammed his foot down, then stopped with a jerk a fraction of an inch from the plant. Trying to get it to flinch.

This is a man, Szeth thought, who pulls back before crushing a weed.

“No wonder you broke and gave up the spear,” Szeth said, “leaving your friends to battle without you. You have grown into a coward, then?”

Kaladin pulled up sharply. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“I should not speak truth?” Szeth said, genuinely curious. “Or are you saying I am not the one to tell you these things, as I have no authority over you? Interesting.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Szeth,” Kaladin said.

“Then you should stop talking,” Szeth replied. “Because if you cannot explain what you mean, then why voice silly thoughts?”

Szeth walked on, and reminded himself not to underestimate this man’s skill. Kaladin deserved at least some of his fearsome reputation. Before Szeth had died his first death, he had faced this man, fighting amid debris and breaking plateaus, red lightning crashing against white. Because of that day, Szeth’s soul remained only loosely connected to his body—though his afterimage was less pronounced now. As if he were slowly healing from that revival.

“I think these plants are neat,” Syl said. She seemed to be trying to distract Kaladin from his annoyance at Szeth—which was an odd emotion to be displaying in the face of true statements expressed clearly.

“I suppose we’ll get used to them,” Kaladin finally said, flying ahead without stepping on any plants. “They’re supposed to be all over Shinovar, hiding among the normal plants.”

Szeth hesitated. He couldn’t help asking. “Hiding among normal plants?”

“What?” Kaladin said, turning in the air. “Oh. They can’t hide, because they don’t move? Still seems strange to me that they can survive. I know the storms aren’t strong here, but people and animals are going to step on them.”

“They’re more resilient than you think,” Szeth said.

“Yeah, but once the real plants retract,” Kaladin said, “these will be sitting out in the open. Like the lone soldier in a company with no armor on.”

Szeth contained his amusement—his spren would not be happy to see such an emotion—and instead joined Kaladin flying along the pass. Soon they reached a point where the path turned steeply downward, giving them a view—for the first time—of Shinovar itself.

Greenery covered the landscape. Vines across the valley walls; grass waving on the path. Trees below in a vast forest along the slope—beyond that the expansive open prairies of the lowlands. Kaladin and Syl landed beside Szeth.

“Here,” Szeth said, “these are the normal plants. There are none like those you are accustomed to.”

“… All of them?” Kaladin said.

“All of them.”

An awespren burst around Kaladin, then he started down the path, obviously excited. Szeth followed, though not because he was excited. This was merely where he had to be.

The whispers followed.

Wind and Truth

I let them pass with two lies.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

The small meeting room—full of monarchs seated in a circle with an outer ring of highprinces, viziers, and lesser primes—grew absolutely still at Wit’s words.

Navani held her breath. Was it possible? What did it mean? Odium was … a different person now?

Voices invaded her mind. The Sibling, and the Stormfather—whom she’d heard only twice before, his voice echoing with thunder.

Is it possible? the Sibling asked.

I … will look, said the Stormfather. I must know. Rayse … he can’t just be …

Dead, the Sibling said. If a new Vessel holds Odium, Rayse must be dead.

Navani glanced at Dalinar, and he nodded. He’d heard both of them too.

“Wit,” Navani said, leaning forward, “how certain are you?”

“I’m certain of nothing,” Wit replied from his place by the wall. “But this … this is almost certain.”

It is true, the Stormfather said. Odium is no longer Rayse.

“You can tell?” Dalinar whispered, so Navani could hear too. “So easily?”

Yes. The tone has changed, only noticeable when I looked.

You … are right, the Sibling said. I feel it. So subtle …

I cannot identify the new Vessel, the Stormfather said. Take care. And Rayse … Rayse is gone, after all this time.

“You sound regretful,” Navani whispered.

Only that my lightning did not strike his corpse, the Stormfather spat. And my wind did not dash it against stones until it broke.

His rumbling faded.

I miss how the Stormfather used to be, the Sibling said. He was so much happier before. Not so angry all the time …

“The Stormfather,” Dalinar said to the room, “has confirmed Wit’s intuition. Odium exists, but has changed hands. It’s like … like how a spren can have a new Radiant.”

“So …” Fen said, glancing around the circle, curled eyebrows shaking alongside her face. “Who cares?”

“Who cares?” Yanagawn said. “This is our greatest enemy!”

“Who is still trying to destroy us,” she said, “as evidenced by the impending invasion. I never knew the old Odium, so it’s basically the same.”

“No,” Wit said. “It’s different.”

Again all eyes turned to him as he rose and walked into the center of the circle. Even in a moment of stress like this, there was a certain showmanship to Wit.

“I knew the old Odium,” he said, spinning around to look at them all. “Our entire plan—the contract, the contest—was based in part on that knowledge. Now … I’m frightened. The old Odium was deeply calcified into his position as a god—and was very unlikely to do anything that would risk that position. The new one was likely a mortal before their Ascension. They’ll be more brash, more willing to take risks.

“More, they aren’t quite bound in the same way. Oh, they’ll have to keep this agreement for the contest of champions—a formal agreement like that binds the power, not just the individual, something Rayse himself discovered long ago. But lesser promises—like the one made to Dalinar about not exploiting loopholes—are a different matter. He is breaking that one easily, because he did not make it.”

“So, wait,” Navani said, trying to understand the details. “Can a god break a contract, or can they not?”

“Anyone, anywhere, can,” Wit explained. “God, human, spren. However, the consequences vary. For a deity, breaking a promise exposes them to destructive forces from others—and the magnitude of the broken promise often determines the severity of the consequence.”

“So …” Fen said. “Can we call off this contest? I don’t appreciate it allowing the conquering of my entire island if one city is captured.”

“Yes, you have that option,” Wit said. “You always did—but if you break the contract, Odium can retaliate in person. He could bring the full force of his powers against you without risking retribution from other gods. Fen … he could kill every person on this planet with a flick of his wrist, if he wanted.”

“Well,” she said, sitting back. “That answers that.”

“No breaking contracts with gods,” Kmakl said from behind Fen. “I’ll make a note of that …”

“And his broken promise not to use loopholes?” Dalinar asked. “We can’t exploit that at all?”

“He can get away with that,” Wit said. “And we can exploit our own, if we can find them. But that promise he made was not a formal agreement certified by oaths. This is the hand we’re dealt. I’m sorry. I am not living up to my name. I should have seen this.”

Storms, what a mess, Navani thought. “So if the enemy”—she tried to lay it out clearly—“can conquer the capitals of Azir, Thaylenah, or the Shattered Plains in the next eight days … he keeps the equivalent kingdom in its entirety. No matter the results of the contest?”

“Yes,” Wit said. “According to Alethi law.”

“Could we change capitals?” Navani said.

“That is a very clever idea,” Wit told her. “Which only a very clever person would think of.”

“Thank you, I …” She trailed off. “You’ve already thought of it, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Wit said. “I asked my draconic friend, and got a negative response. How to explain this?” He thought a moment. “Alethi legal codes apply here, and they are an absolute mess. A snarl of self-contradictory codes, uncertain precedents, and insane laws that are still on the books because some drunk highprince thought they were amusing. Don’t show them to the Azish. They’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

“Too late,” Noura said. “I began studying them the moment we started this coalition.”

“Here’s the short of it,” Wit said, holding up the written-out version of Dalinar’s agreement with Odium. “This is immutable. This stands. What Odium’s doing plays dirty, but does not break these rules. We could try to do something similar, but changing the capital—or one of a dozen other very clever things I came up with—would put us in violation.”

“And,” Kmakl said, “we shouldn’t violate agreements with gods. I just made a note of it, even.” He gave a wan smile.

Navani took a deep breath. “All right then, we’re back to where we started—merely with a better understanding. Three armies are heading to three capitals. We need to defend all three for eight days, and hope there are no other big surprises in the contract.”

“I will speak to my friend,” Wit said. “I don’t think there’s anything else, but if there is, I will find it. Honestly, most of what she said was complimentary. The agreement was well done, this small item notwithstanding.”

“The important point now is what to do next,” Jasnah said.

“We stand united,” Dalinar said, looking around the room. “And we do not give one inch of stone to him. Stargyle, let’s have a map.”

Stargyle stepped forward, and a brilliant, shimmering map of Roshar appeared in the center of the chamber.

What is this? the Sibling said in Navani’s mind. That is … that is incredible.

Like the work of a master sculptor, the map had fine topographical detail. It could be zoomed in until you could see cities, and zoomed out until it seemed as if you were gazing down from the moons upon a tiny continent surrounded by blue waters.

Navani stood up, joining Dalinar and Stargyle at the side of the map. He really was mastering this—a few weeks ago, only Shallan had been capable of the feat. Across the map, Noura provided a taller stool for her emperor. As usual, the Mink stood and started walking straight through it—causing it to fuzz into Stormlight and churn in his passing, like eddies in a stream, until stabilizing again in place.

It wasn’t accurate to the moment—this represented the world as it had been the last time the highstorm had passed. Still, its majesty took Navani’s breath away every time—and she was pleased that the Sibling was similarly impressed.

I’ve encountered nothing like this, they said in her mind. How? How can you do things the ancient Radiants never did?

Science is usually the product of incremental advances, shared across a body of people working together, Navani said. But sometimes that group limits you, because they make assumptions. I know there are many things we’ve lost that the ancient Radiants did better—but at the same time, we’re not limited by their expectations.

“All right,” the Mink said. He was a shorter Herdazian man, lean of build, with a thin mustache and a wide, inviting smile—though his missing tooth and scarred wrists were a testament to the hardships he’d known. “First things first. Here are our current troop placements.”

He pointed at Emul, to the south of Azir. “The largest group of coalition forces—with many of our Stonewards and Edgedancers—are here. They were fighting near the border with Tukar and Marat, and have been moving home for three days now. Some of those—our rear guard, forty thousand strong—are a six-day march from Azimir.”

“Too far,” Yanagawn said. “The enemy will arrive before then, and my forces are down to only a few thousand. We’ll need reinforcement.”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, walking past Navani to the eastern side of Roshar. “But from where? The rest of the bulk of our troops are here, holding the borders of Alethkar in the Frostlands.”

They’d been fighting an extended war against the enemy—and most of their clashes had been on these battle lines. Therefore, that was where their troops were. Urithiru had reserves and off-duty soldiers, but many of them had been slaughtered during the invasion and occupation. Navani had been with them trying to hold out, and the nightmare of seeing so many soldiers give their lives was a fresh wound. One she’d have to address someday, once the crisis was over.

If the crisis was ever over.

“We don’t have many troops who can reach an Oathgate in time,” Dalinar said. “We’re stretched incredibly thin, and we can’t move large bodies of troops quickly. Particularly not since we’ll need the Windrunners for air support.”

“We have scouts investigating each of the armies,” the Mink continued. “The fleet sailing for Thaylenah has over two hundred ships. They’re not good for naval combat—mostly troop transports—which is why the blockade worked for so long. Now that it’s broken though, they could deliver forty thousand soldiers to Thaylen City.”

“Storms,” Fen whispered.

“The force moving for Azimir is, fortunately, smaller,” the Mink said. “Approximately fifteen thousand, and barely a handful of Fused. It seems they wanted to take us by surprise. Finally, the force marching on the Shattered Plains is almost exclusively Fused—the most fearsome of the armies by far, though it’s only a thousand individuals.”

“But they attack a mostly barren region,” Fen said.

“Not barren,” Jasnah said. “That is the sole land my people have, in exile. Those are our lumberyards, our fields, and our new budding city at the warcamps. It’s all we have.”

“Still …” Fen said.

“Let’s focus on the defense of Azir first,” the Mink said, holding up his hand, strolling through the mountains and to the west. “The enemy will arrive midday tomorrow, best we can guess. You said you have … what, three thousand city defenders?”

Kzal—one of the viziers—replied, “Yes, General.”

The Mink nodded to Dalinar and pointed. Navani stepped over as Dalinar zoomed the map in until they could almost make out the signs of warcamps on the flatlands south of Azimir.

“This large army of ours is five or six days away,” the Mink mused. “If your forces in Azimir hold out until then, you’ll win for certain. Even if you lose the city, that army of so many of our forces returning could maybe take it back …”

“We can’t risk that though,” Adolin said, rising from his seat among the highprinces in the second row. “We can’t just let Azimir be taken, maybe burned.” He walked through the map, and for some reason he’d summoned his Shardblade—and was whispering to it? Navani sidled closer, overhearing what sounded like a quiet narration of what he was seeing. How odd.

The Mink squatted down so he was eye level with the map. Navani wasn’t certain what advantage this provided, but he liked to do it, looking across the landscape—in this case from the perspective of Azimir.

“This is not a trap,” he said softly, smoothing his thin, greying mustache, “but the exploitation of an opportunity. They didn’t deliberately draw your armies away into Emul, otherwise they’d have struck already. They must have sent this force through Shadesmar weeks ago. Ships do not materialize out of thin air.”

They do there, the Sibling noted. Though it requires Stormlight …

“You have a strong position here, Yanagawn,” Dalinar said, gesturing. “You may not have a lot of troops, but the enemy has to come through the Oathgate. The Skybreakers that were fighting in Emul have been withdrawn to strike at Thaylenah, and there are few Fused with the invading army, so you don’t have enemy Invested to worry about. Plus, you have the Oathgate surrounded by that metal dome, right?”

“Yes,” Yanagawn said. “But despite that, I’m afraid. They have five times our number of troops!”

“A fortification like that can be an excellent force multiplier,” the Mink said. “But the average singer troop is stronger than a human one, with their warform armor. It will be a tight defense.”

“Normally, striking directly at Azimir would be suicide,” Dalinar said, stepping up beside the Mink. “And taking it wouldn’t mean anything—it’s in the heart of the empire. You can’t expect success in an extended campaign if you’re surrounded. But this isn’t an extended campaign. They just have to seize Azimir and hold it for a few days.”

“You are right,” the Mink said, standing with his head peeking up through the illusory map. As if he were swimming. “This is an entire empire. You, Azish word people. What happens to your empire if Azir is conquered?”

The viziers conferred, then went to talk to Wit. Navani tapped her fingers together in thought, and didn’t miss how several in the room—representatives of Emul, Yezier, Desh—murmured at this. All three were smaller kingdoms that were part of the complex Azish imperial state. They were autonomous in all but name: never overtly rejecting Azir’s claims of dominance, but also not paying tax to the central kingdom, except occasional support for armies keeping the peace.

It had worked for centuries. The smaller kingdoms gained increased political clout and Azir was able to pretend it was in charge. The lesser primes deferred to the emperor in social matters, and Azish armies lent aid to nearby disputes.

No one said the quiet part: that there was no empire. Only a group of ethnically connected kingdoms who role-played as one.

Except now.

“Unfortunately,” Noura said, with Wit looking sour behind her, “if Azimir falls, they all fall. An entire empire, captured in one bold move.”

“We can’t risk that,” Adolin said, stepping into the center of Shinovar.

“What we can and cannot risk,” the Mink said, “depends on the troops. Dalinar, how many can you reasonably provide in time?”

“Honestly?” Dalinar said. “Maybe twenty thousand.”

“I need those troops,” Fen said. “Thaylen City will fall without them.” She glanced to Yanagawn. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but you have reinforcements only a few days’ march from your door—and an excellent fortification with which to resist in the interim. My situation is far more dire.”

“What exactly are your defenses?” Jasnah asked, still seated, taking notes for herself quietly.

“We have a skeleton of a navy left,” Fen explained. “Our ground forces—such as they were—mostly fell at the Battle of Thaylen Field. Frankly, we’re dependent on you for our defense now. As you all well know.”

“We are establishing our situation, not trying to goad you,” Jasnah said.

“Let us look at the third point of attack,” the Mink said. “The Shattered Plains. These are well defended, no?”

“Very well defended,” Dalinar said. “But I hate pitting conventional troops against Fused.”

“If we lose the Shattered Plains,” Jasnah said, “we lose our last foothold in eastern Roshar.”

“Three vital points of defense,” the Mink said, appearing tiny beside Dalinar. “And our military is strung out, blanketing hundreds of miles of borderlands. This isn’t good, Dalinar.”

Navani had read a lot of books on tactics out loud to her husbands, so she tried to figure out what Dalinar and the Mink would decide. Throw everything at Azir, perhaps? It had the fewest troops, and its Oathgate would soon stop functioning for the coalition forces. At Thaylenah, the enemy would need to perform an ocean assault and then break through the city walls. They’d done both during the Battle of Thaylen Field, but they would have a much harder time accomplishing that now, with the coalition ready for them. The same went for the Shattered Plains: Navani knew firsthand how difficult that territory was to crack.

But Azimir? With enemies flooding out of the Oathgate in the center of the city, mere yards from the palace? She thought Dalinar would put most of their forces there.

Dalinar and the Mink shared a glance. And from their expressions, Navani knew she was missing something. What?

“I see your concern, Uncle,” Jasnah said from her seat, Wit just behind her, one hand on the back of her chair. “What is it?”

“We have limited troops we can mobilize on such short notice,” Dalinar said. “If we spread ourselves too thin, we lose everything.”

“We have to assume the forty thousand coming to Azimir will be enough,” Jasnah said, seeming proud that she’d figured it out. “Because if we commit more troops there, they’ll be locked away behind a nonfunctional Oathgate. A fate the forty thousand will already suffer. So we send only a few thousand to hold out there, and split the bulk of our forces across the other two fronts.”

“Yes,” the Mink said, sounding reluctant. “That is the best plan. A skeleton force to Azimir. The bulk of our conventional troops to Thaylen City to hold the walls—which are useless without troops on them.”

Yanagawn stood up from his throne. “This leaves us alone! Least defended! Abandoned!”

“Your Excellency,” Dalinar said, turning, “we’re not abandoning you. We’re not making decisions right now, merely working through our options. But the truth is, you have that excellent fortification surrounding the Oathgate, and you have forty thousand friendly troops on your doorstep. Along with all of the Radiants who were fighting alongside them.”

“We walk a delicate line,” the Mink said. “If we overcommit to Azir, which will soon have far more troops than it needs anyway, we’ll lose everything else. We must do all we can to hasten the force already on its way to Azimir, and not leave everything else undefended. Navani, how confident are you in the tower’s natural defenses?”

Sibling? she asked.

The lights in the room dimmed. A glowing column of light appeared from a glass disc in the ceiling, extending to a matching one below. The Sibling’s voice spoke to all of them. “They will not come here. Fused will fall unconscious. Regals will have their forms stripped from them. Even common singers will lose access to their rhythms, and my beats can drive them mad. They know that. Now that I’ve returned, they know.”

The room stilled. Well, that seemed a step forward. Only a few days ago, the Sibling would barely speak to Navani.

“That sounds conclusive,” the Mink said. “So, Dalinar, we can empty Urithiru of your twenty thousand and send the bulk of them to shore up Thaylenah. We cannot lose the island—if we do, we will give up the seas entirely. The Shattered Plains might be able to handle themselves. We can pull in some outlying forces, centralize at Narak.”

“Pardon,” Sigzil said, “but the scout reports are frank. The fight at the Shattered Plains will face thunderclasts, Heavenly Ones, Deepest Ones, and more. That’s suicide for conventional troops without support.”

“He’s right,” Dalinar said. “We’ll need our Radiants there—to counter their Invested.”

“And Azir?” Yanagawn said from where he stood. “We defend Thaylenah and the Shattered Plains, but what do we send to my homeland? You mentioned at least a skeleton force to help me hold until the army arrives?”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, rubbing his chin. “I think your fight is the most winnable. That dome fortification is incredible.”

“I disagree,” the Mink said. “The defense will be more difficult than you think, Dalinar. The dome will offer a clear killing field, but singer forces are well armored, good versus arrows. If you were defending against humans, you could hold it easily. Against singers?” He shook his head.

“Yes, but a small number of troops should be able to hold a few days,” Dalinar said, gesturing toward Azimir on the map. “We must send the bulk of our troops to Thaylen City to man the walls, but what if we sent the best of our troops to that dome?”

“I don’t know,” the Mink said. “One misstep, and that dome will fill with enemies like a boil on a finger, waiting to pop. Then they’ll flood into the very heart of the city. No, I wouldn’t want to try to hold that. It could be a waste. We maybe should send nobody, evacuate, and then let the returning army of forty thousand reclaim Azimir once they arrive.”

“That’s too much of a risk,” Yanagawn said. “What if it were your homeland, Dieno?”

The Mink looked up. Then took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, you are right. Of course you are right. I’m sorry—sometimes a love of tactics overshadows the heart. We must do what we can. Our best, then, to Azir. Enough to hold, but not so much to weaken other fronts. But who will lead them?”

A beat, the room quiet. Navani held her breath.

“I’ll go,” Adolin said, stepping into the illusion. “Father, let me recruit two thousand. I’ll ask for volunteers for what might be a difficult fight, and gather the best of them. With them and the Cobalt Guard, I’ll go to Azir and hold that city until reinforcements arrive.”

Dalinar glanced at Navani; the Mink’s words seemed to have unnerved him. “What of the other two battlefronts,” he said at last. “Who leads those armies? I will need to prepare for my contest, and I suspect I won’t be available.”

“I’m no general,” Fen said. “And Kmakl is a navy man. I’d like some generals with ground force experience.”

“What about me?” Jasnah said, finally rising. “I’ve fought in Thaylen City before. I could go, bring generals to determine our strategy, and take command of the twenty thousand there.”

Navani held her tongue. Jasnah had been eager for chances to prove herself as a tactician—as if she didn’t have enough to occupy her mind. Still, Jasnah was perhaps the most dangerous Radiant they had.

“A good choice,” Dalinar said. “Fen, what do you think?”

“We’d welcome the queen,” Fen said. “Especially if I can get Stonewards to seal up breaches in the wall, should it get knocked down again.”

“We have a few,” Dalinar said, likely doing the mental math. They didn’t have as many Stonewards as they did Edgedancers and Windrunners, and most were already in the group marching for Azimir. “I can send those, along with some Edgedancers to heal the wounded.”

“Excellent,” Jasnah said, settling back down. “I’ll begin forming a strategy, and discuss it with our generals.”

“Windrunner Sigzil,” Dalinar said. “You take command of the Shattered Plains.”

“… Sir?” Sigzil said.

“We’ll want a Radiant in command there. I’ll send the Stormwall to back you up, and you can rely on our generals for tactics. But the Windrunners are our largest and most decorated group of Radiant soldiers. You should lead.”

“Sir,” Sigzil said, saluting.

“And me, Father?” Adolin asked, stepping closer. “Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m just thinking,” Dalinar said, and Navani could tell he didn’t want to get into it in front of everyone.

“Have I failed you too many times?” Adolin asked.

“I didn’t say …” Dalinar took a deep breath.

“Majesty,” Yanagawn said to Dalinar, his tone fierce. “Your son is the most accomplished swordsman in Alethkar, perhaps the world. He was trained in warfare by the Blackthorn himself. I’m certain my generals would welcome his aid.”

Navani wasn’t so certain. She’d seen how jealous soldiers could get when someone outside their command structure showed up and took charge, but she held her tongue.

“Father,” Adolin said, “the enemy at Azimir won’t have many Fused. In Shadesmar I saw some Heavenly Ones, but mostly ships full of common soldiers. We can contain them. Let me go.”

Dalinar towered over the center of the map. Eventually he nodded. “A good plan. You may go, son. And you may recruit up to two thousand of our best, as you wish.”

“Excellent,” Adolin said.

“Thank you!” Yanagawn said. “We should start now! We cannot waste time!”

“The next few hours will be critical,” Dalinar said. “If the monarchs are agreed, we can break this meeting for now—though send your generals in to speak with the Mink and me. We will spend the next few hours going over strategy for each battlefield in detail.”

Immediately the Azish contingent started moving, picking up their seats. Adolin started to join them, then hesitated at the edge of the map.

He and Dalinar locked gazes. Just go hug him, Navani thought, stepping up to Dalinar and putting her hand to the small of his back. Wish him the best. Tell him you believe in him.

Neither spoke. Then Adolin spun on his heel and hurried toward the door. Navani sighed.

“What?” Dalinar said to her. “He wants little to do with me these days, Navani. It’s best I let him go.”

“He needs his father,” Navani said. “Regardless of what he wants. You’re simply going to let him walk out?”

“We don’t have time for his drama, Navani,” Dalinar said. “Whatever I do, it won’t be good enough for him. I fear if I ask him for something, he’ll do the opposite. I …”

He trailed off as he noticed that Adolin had stopped by the door. To Navani’s delight, he turned around and came back. “Father,” he said reluctantly, “Shallan sent me with a message you need to hear.”

Navani felt her eyes widen as Adolin gave a brief—far too brief, for her taste—recounting of some things Shallan had told him. A group of foreign spies, working for offworld interests, in Urithiru? Recruiting Shallan when she was still new, and isolated, on the Plains?

That girl. That storming girl. She should have come to them with this. Navani forced her anger down. Shallan had, for better or worse, been trained by Jasnah—who kept these kinds of secrets as a matter of course.

“She’s moving against them now,” Adolin said. “She needs authorization for an operation and a Radiant strike force.”

“I don’t like the idea,” Dalinar said, “of authorizing a strike on a group I barely know anything about. It means putting a lot of trust in someone who has apparently been lying to us all.”

“Something,” Adolin said, “you know absolutely nothing about.”

Inwardly, Navani groaned. The two met each other’s eyes, and she considered intervening. But storms, they were going to work it out eventually themselves.

“You’re supposed to be above gibes like that, son,” Dalinar said softly. “I raised you to be better.”

“Raised me?” Adolin said. Angerspren pooled like blood at his feet—one of the few varieties of spren that ignored her orders. “You didn’t raise me, Father. You killed the woman who did.”

Dalinar winced. “This isn’t the time.”

“It could be,” Navani said, wanting to grab them both by the arms and tow them off to talk until they worked it out.

“No,” Adolin agreed. “Not right now. Father, I want you to authorize Shallan’s strike. Time is of the essence. Please.”

Dalinar sighed, then nodded. “We’ll reach out to her for what she needs.”

Storms, they seemed so close. Finally, Dalinar opened his mouth. Her heart leaped, expecting the apology. Instead it was a gruff, “You might need help with the Azish. You don’t speak their language.”

“I can get an interpreter.”

“I can do better,” Dalinar said, taking him by the shoulder. Stormlight streamed off Dalinar. “I can give you a Bondsmithing to help. It won’t work anywhere but in Azir, but while you’re there, it will let you understand them. It should last a few weeks.”

Adolin grunted. They stared one another in the eyes. Then, Adolin nodded and left without another word.

Navani sighed, her heart bleeding for them.

“Why?” she asked Dalinar. “Why don’t you say more?”

“He always throws it back at me,” Dalinar said, his thumb and forefinger massaging his forehead. “And in a way, he’s right, Navani. I didn’t raise him. He was always just … so perfect, all on his own. Or with Evi’s help, I suppose. I now realize I never did anything other than order him around.”

“And letting it fester will make it better?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But this really isn’t the time. I’ve got a strategy meeting I need to lead. After that, though, I need to tell you about something even more important.” He seemed concerned. “I need your counsel. That of Jasnah and Wit too, maybe Fen.”

She frowned. “What is this?”

“On the way to the meeting today,” Dalinar said, his expression distant, “I encountered a god …”

Wind and Truth

First, I dared not tell them this dusty traveler with whom they shared a meal was in fact that very king they had heard of. The second was that I did not explain that very king had abdicated his throne and walked away from his kingdom.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Shallan and her team—the best she had, without Vathah and Ishnah, who were still in Shadesmar—spent the next few hours planning. Then it was finally time.

Her team of five made their way to an Oathgate outside Urithiru, hiding among a larger group of soldiers being transferred to Narak to reinforce it. She led with outward confidence, though deeper inside she acknowledged she was terrified. Mraize and Iyatil had manipulated her before. They had a nearly supernatural understanding of politics on Roshar—including the politics between gods.

Where other groups had made bids for kingdoms, the Ghostbloods made bids for worlds—or for control of economic forces as big as those worlds. This was what terrified Shallan. Not the things that she worried they’d do. The things she was too ignorant to worry they’d do.

These thoughts haunted her, accompanied by anxietyspren, as light flashed around them and they transferred to Narak—the city at the center of the Shattered Plains. It had been a year and a half since Dalinar’s fateful expedition and the events that had summoned the Everstorm. Since then, Narak had become a fortress. With Stonewards, they’d expanded the Oathgate platform a good ten feet. Then it and each of the central cluster of plateaus had been turned into a defensive bastion lined by Soulcast walls, attended by troops in towers.

A lighteyed captain shouted at them to get moving, seeing Shallan and the other four as just another squad of spearmen. They hiked off the Oathgate platform with the others, entering the new ring of ground around the plateau where people could wait their turn to transfer. Here Shallan and her team broke off, heads up, acting like they belonged. They crossed the bridge to Narak Four, a nearby plateau that had its own towering circular wall.

“Looks like a chouta roll,” Red said from behind her.

“What are you on about?” Gaz said.

“The walls around these plateaus,” he said. “Makes them look like a bunch of chouta rolls. You know, open at the top? Stuffed with meat.”

“And we’re the meat?” Darcira asked, her voice masked by a Lightweaving to sound masculine.

“Sure,” Red said.

“They’re too stocky to look like chouta,” Darcira said. “More like shalebark ridges. Oh! Tree stumps, where the center has rotted out.”

“Or, you know,” Gaz grumbled, “like the warcamps. Where we lived for years?”

“Oh, yeah!” Red said.

“Circular walls,” Darcira said, “soldiers everywhere … Nah, don’t see it.”

“You two are buffoons,” Gaz said. “I should have stayed a storming deserter. At least out in the wilds, everyone was too depressed to make small talk.”

Shallan hushed them as they reached the end of the bridge, where they presented falsified orders to the sergeant and scribe on watch at the gate. Darcira had waved them into existence on a sheet, a perfect replica. Though Shallan, via Adolin, had permission from the Bondsmiths, she wasn’t going to trust anyone she didn’t need to. Anyone here could be in Ghostblood employ.

The sergeant waved Shallan and her group through, and they entered Narak Four: a distinctive plateau covered in ancient buildings once so enveloped in crem that they’d looked like smooth mounds. A little creative application of Shardblades had unearthed the original stone buildings, providing room for barracks and a small marketplace, carefully regulated by Navani and the military.

Shallan and her team made a show—for the sergeant idly watching by the gates—of walking to their assigned barrack. They came out on the other side wearing the faces and clothing of crem scrapers: the easy-to-ignore, lowly workers that kept a place like this clean. As they moved into position, they were joined by Jayn—a Riran woman whom Shallan had recruited to the Unseen Court eight months ago. She’d been sent ahead to watch the Ghostblood hideout.

“They’re continuing to gather, Brightness,” Jayn said softly, also disguised as a crem scraper. “I’ve seen five or six people enter the building over the last half hour.”

Shallan nodded. Reports said someone was at the doorway, using black sand to check everyone who entered. That made Lightweaving tricky, as the sand could reveal uses of Radiant powers.

To maintain their disguises, her team began leveling a patch of road near the hideout with chisels, removing the crem, plants, and lichens that grew on the stone. Gaz used posts with string between to section off their working area, diverting foot traffic, letting them chat without worrying about being overheard.

Shallan took the role of foreman, walking around, checking on the other five as they worked. In reality she watched that hideout, a supposed storehouse of no importance. Two more people arrived, including a shorter uniformed Alethi man she recognized from Hoid’s sketches. The second was a member of the Azish Prime’s retinue—a vizier even, though not one of the very important ones like Noura. Shallan took a Memory of him, so she could add a drawing of the man to their stack.

Mraize had rarely let Shallan meet anyone but him, isolating her from what was proving to be a distressingly large network, including people among most of the major political organizations on Roshar. The best she knew, their primary goal was to find a way to begin shipping Stormlight offworld, but that—though likely a potential source of great riches—seemed too small-scale for Mraize and Iyatil.

The front door of the hideout had a sheltered porch, with a dark shadow just inside. When each new Ghostblood arrived at the door, a short, cloaked figure stepped from the shadows and inspected them. Shallan caught a hint of a painted wooden mask, and the shape of the figure looked female. That confirmed Darcira’s observations: it was either Iyatil or, more likely, the woman among the other two.

The door guard inspected each of the two newcomers by touching their faces to check for discrepancies in their features. Then they held up a jar of black sand.

Shallan huddled with Darcira, Gaz, Red, and Jayn as they labored. They pretended to be working on a particularly stubborn section of ground together while Jeneh kept watch. Their spren had instructions to ride on the insides of clothing to remain hidden.

“All right,” Shallan said. “This is our last chance to back out.”

“This won’t be like infiltrating the Sons of Honor,” Gaz added. “That group was already dying when we put them down. This might be the most dangerous organization on the planet. I … worry we should go to ground, hide from them. Wait out the coming storm. I’m not sure we’re ready.”

“What do the rest of you think?” Shallan asked.

“I think,” Red said, “that nobody ever feels ready for big operations. Storms, you think half those boys on the walls feel ready to fight a war? The question isn’t if we’re ready, but if it needs to be done.”

Gaz grunted. “That’s true, I suppose. Red, you need to stop saying things that are smart. You’ll upend my entire opinion of you.”

Red smiled, continuing to work with his chisel, scraping away crem. He had experience with tools like this, having trained as a craftsman during his youth.

“I think our plan is good,” Darcira said. “I say we move forward.” She was an unusual one, a scientist who had shown talent for Lightweaving and left the ardents to join Shallan. She was the only one in the Court who tended to draw logicspren as often as creationspren.

“I’m worried about how many people are in there,” Jayn said. “Shallan, you will be completely outnumbered. Do we really need to do this?”

“In just over eight days,” Shallan said softly, “Dalinar Kholin will fight the champion of Odium to decide the fate of the world. The Ghostbloods, best we can determine, are the most dangerous secret political force on the planet. So …”

“They’re going to be involved somehow,” Red said. “They’ll have some plan to compromise the contest. I’m in.” His spren hummed from where he rode on the inside of Red’s jacket. Array didn’t say much, and as far as Shallan had been able to tell, he didn’t hum when he tasted lies—he seemed to like alliteration of all things.

“Mraize and Iyatil are accustomed to the luxury of darkness and shadow,” Shallan said. “We need to expose them, naked for the world to see. So long as they have a monopoly on information, they will control us. And if we’re always reacting to them, never attacking, they will beat us.” She paused, some of Mraize’s own words returning to her memory. “Prey can only ever run. It can survive, but it can never win. Not so long as the predator lives.”

“Sure,” Gaz said, “but we could just send the Radiant strike team in. I hate relying on Windrunners for anything other than transportation—and then they still usually find a way to squeeze in a lecture or two. But … we could defer to them this time, Shallan.”

“We will use them,” Shallan said. “But Gaz, if we bring in soldiers first, then my gut says Mraize and Iyatil will find a way to escape. Even if they don’t, they’ll never talk. We could throw them in prison for a decade, and those two would keep their silence. I need to know what they’re planning. I need to get into that meeting.”

She’d learned some of what she hungered for, yes. Kelek, and her own recovered memories, gave her pieces—but there was so much more. Worlds’ worth. She thirsted for the chance to at least once hear them talking freely.

Beyond that … they were planning something. Why was that woman spying on Dalinar? Why did they want Ba-Ado-Mishram? Would bursting in with swords out and powers ablaze stop their plans? Maybe. Maybe not. It depended on what pieces were already in motion.

“Storm it,” Gaz said. “You’re right. I’m in.”

Gaz and Red were among her oldest friends, and among their most experienced Lightweavers. She knew Gaz well enough to tell his objections were real—he was concerned about this mission. But he also was objecting in part so that the concerns could be voiced, then overcome.

“I’m in too,” Jayn said. “Though the real danger is to you, Brightness.”

“I can handle it,” Radiant said. “We are a go, then. Hopefully they haven’t started discussing anything important.”

Her team had talked about this. The Ghostbloods couldn’t bring everyone over through the Oathgates at once. A group would draw too much attention, and since the attendees were still trickling in, she hoped Mraize was still waiting.

Darcira covertly checked her clock—which, like many scholars, she wore on one of Navani’s arm bracer fabrials. “The next Oathgate transfer is a bit over a half hour from now, and our surveillance spotted a few important members of the Ghostbloods—at least ones that Wit thought were important—hanging out in the grand entryway of Urithiru, as if waiting their turn. They’re likely to be in that next batch, which gives us just enough time to set up phase two.”

“Let’s work for a few minutes longer,” Gaz suggested. “Else it’s suspicious we set up here.”

Shallan nodded in agreement, and started to actually scrape. It was surprisingly hard work—but she did get a particularly defiant rockbud free, forcing her chisel underneath and finally prying it loose. A low rain had started to mist the air, though after the highstorm last night, the next wouldn’t be due for a few days. Weather had been odd since the coming of the Everstorm, and rain like this was more common.

Pattern hummed softly from within her jacket, though she couldn’t tell why. This next part would be difficult. She’d never heard of that strange black sand before their planning meeting earlier, but apparently it had been used to spot hidden spren toward the end of Urithiru’s occupation.

Whether the sand was in jars with guards, or sprinkled along the inside of windowsills, it would change color if any intelligent spren came near. Lesser spren apparently weren’t noticeable, but Cryptics absolutely would be. Worse, it revealed Lightweavings.

Shallan wasn’t terribly surprised—she’d seen Wit use something similar once, and had always wondered at the mechanics. Unfortunately, it meant she had to do the hardest part without her powers or her spren.

“Time to move, then,” Shallan said, standing. “Let’s go.”

Sigzil did his best to pretend he was Kaladin.

He stood tall during the long strategy meeting that followed the initial discussion of the monarchs, and he tried to act like he understood more than he did. Kaladin was always so sure of himself. He always knew the next step to take.

Sigzil couldn’t do that, but he could pretend enough to keep the anxietyspren away. Act like he belonged among monarchs, generals, and the storming Prime Aqasix of the Azish Empire.

Sigzil’s mother would laugh at him; he read the amusement in her letters. Him? A military man? Her studious little boy, so delicate and refined? Even in Azir, he’d been made fun of for his persnickety ways. Yet here he was, shoulder to shoulder with a group of generals.

“Someone,” he whispered to himself, “is going to eventually discover I’m a fraud, won’t they?”

“You’re not a fraud,” Vienta, his spren, whispered to him—remaining invisible, as she often did.

“I’m a failed scholar, a mediocre Worldsinger, and a persnickety perfectionist who drives the others up the wall. I …”

“Did you survive Bridge Four?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Through pain and storm, I survived.”

“Then you can survive this.”

“But to lead them?” he asked.

“What do you think,” she said softly, “was the result of that pain and fire? You are a leader now, Sigzil. You are a hero. Live that truth.”

As the meeting moved toward a break, Sigzil found himself standing with Kmakl, the Thaylen prince consort, at the edge of the large glowing map.

“What I don’t get,” Kmakl was saying to Ka, the Windrunner scribe, “is where their troops came from.”

Across the room, Brightlord Dalinar, Brightness Navani, Queen Jasnah, and Queen Fen retreated to a smaller chamber to discuss something sensitive. The Azish Prime had left a short time before, to return to his city. He wasn’t generally involved in detailed battle plans.

“Their troops get reborn,” Ka said, poring over the scout reports. She made notations with her silver pen, one of the most interesting uses of a Shardblade among the Windrunners to date. It had a cartridge to fill with ink and everything. She chose to wear a blue havah embroidered with the Bridge Four symbol on the shoulder, one of the new uniforms Kaladin had authorized.

There was an Azish-inspired one as well, which Sigzil could have worn. Their most recent recruits were from all across Roshar, and Sigzil himself had made the point that the Windrunners shouldn’t be perceived as an Alethi group. So why didn’t he wear that instead of the uniform he’d been given all those months ago? Was it because of the tattoo on his forehead?

Bridge Four was the only place I ever felt like a person rather than an accident, he thought. But without Kaladin, Rock, Teft, Moash … was it really Bridge Four anymore? All he wanted was to be back at that fire, sitting with his friends and listening to Rock gently make fun of him for counting the chunks of meat in bowls of stew to make sure everyone was getting proper nutrition.

“Brightlord?” Kmakl asked him. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Sigzil said, clasping his hands behind his back, forcing his attention onto the logistics. “You were saying they have too many troops? I think Ka is correct. Their Fused can be reborn; they’ll always have more troops than we do.”

“True, true,” Kmakl said. “But with the number of Fused marching on the Shattered Plains, those troop transports coming for Thaylen City will be filled with ordinary singers. They’ll be thrown at our battle lines like bait to be caught in our nets. Poor souls. They have to be running out of frontline soldiers, don’t they?”

“Apparently not,” Ka said. “How do we distribute our Windrunners? Sigzil?”

“Thaylen City will need at least one squad, maybe an entire company,” Sigzil said. “The enemy will probably move some Skybreakers to the Shattered Plains, now that the blockade is broken, but an air force will guard those troop transports during the crossing. So we should be ready to match them once they reach Thaylen City, to not cede air superiority.”

He wished they had more variety to their Radiant forces. Yes, they had Windrunners and Edgedancers aplenty, and a growing force of Stonewards and Lightweavers. The other orders were largely empty though.

“The enemy will have a difficult landing at my homeland,” Kmakl said. “That’s when they’ll be most vulnerable. We’ll burn the docks and lay hull-rippers in the shallows. When they land, we go back to the walls.”

“They smashed those open with thunderclasts last time,” Ka noted. “But I have an idea. We could assign our Windrunners to another battlefield until the enemy arrives at yours—forcing them to waste Skybreakers guarding their ships for days.”

“A clever idea,” Kmakl said. “With Oathgates at both the Shattered Plains and Thaylen City, we can transfer troops between battlefields as necessary.” He glanced up, toward where the Azish contingent had been earlier.

Considering, perhaps, Sigzil thought, what the Mink said. About Azimir being a tougher defense than it looked. It would be the only one of the three unable to receive support from the other battlefields, as its Oathgate would soon cease functioning. At least they’d have an entire army arriving to help in a few days.

Sigzil had to worry about stretching his Windrunners too thin. The battle at the Shattered Plains was going to be a strange one, full of so many Fused. And somehow he had to lead that defense.

“We can use the Oathgates,” Ka noted, “but we will want to be very careful with them. We’ve had one too many instances of ‘Wait, how’d these pesky enemy forces get here in the squishy part of my rear lines?’ I think we should assign some people to keep talking to each Oathgate spren, to hopefully prevent any other defections. What do you think, Sigzil?”

What did he think? He glanced at her, and heard his spren’s words echoing in his mind.

Live that truth.

Storm him, it was time to stop being unsure of himself, wasn’t it? It was time to stop fidgeting. He’d been put in command.

He needed to act like it.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “And also … Ka, I have an idea about the defense of Narak. Where I’m in command. It’s a strange one, but I think it might work.”

“Excellent,” Ka said. “If so, we should run it past the Mink.”

Kmakl scanned the room. “I have some questions to ask him too. But … has anyone seen him?”

Storms. The little man had vanished yet again.

Jasnah—with Dalinar, Navani, and Fen—entered a room full of plants and bobbing lifespren.

It had once been an ordinary room, but upon the Sibling’s awakening, it had transformed. The stone of the ceiling looked transparent, replicating the sun—making you feel like you were standing beneath a skylight. But that sun didn’t move, and didn’t match the true position outside.

Fragments of glowing white light embedded in the stone made the walls and ceiling sparkle, and plants had begun to sprout from the stonework—vines and rockbuds, moss and even grass in patches. All growing with incredible speed.

“I heard of this place long ago,” Ivory said, his voice soft but audible from where he—shrunken to tiny size—rode on her earring. “The tower likes to experiment with what a room should be, building strange landscapes. I thought the stories fancies.”

“This is growing into something of a mess,” Dalinar said from the center of the room, where vines were curling around his legs. “Can we ask the Sibling to tone it down?”

“They’d rather not,” Navani said.

The room vibrated, and a quiet voice echoed from the air vents near the floor. “It is a room for my sister, should she visit. A room for the Nightwatcher.”

“Very well,” Dalinar said, with his firmest voice. His you really should listen to me and do as I say, but I’ll pretend you doing otherwise doesn’t bother me voice. “We appreciate your willingness to make the tower function.”

“I did not have much choice in the matter,” the Sibling said. “But I did have some. So you are welcome.”

Queen Fen took a chair from those piled near some tables on the far side, pulling it free of the foliage. They’d used this smaller chamber off the meeting room for storage. Jasnah stepped softly, trying to imagine the Nightwatcher visiting, enjoying the abundance of life. Had it ever happened? The Sibling and the tower had shut down just before the Recreance, over two thousand years ago.

“When was the Nightwatcher created?” Jasnah whispered to Ivory. “We call her the Old Magic, but how long has she been around? When did Cultivation form her?”

Before Ivory could answer, a voice whispered back from a nearby air vent. “The Nightwatcher came from the Night, as the Stormfather came from the Wind. Though, when I was young, the Wind was different. So very different.”

“When were you created, Sibling?” Jasnah asked.

“Some six thousand years ago, when the Stones wanted a legacy in the form of a child of Honor and Cultivation. Back when Bondsmiths bonded not to spren, but to the ancient forces, left by gods.”

“And the Stormfather?”

“Soon before me.”

“That’s inaccurate though,” Jasnah said. “Dalinar speaks of the Stormfather having existed when people first came to Roshar, seven thousand years ago. The Stormfather remembers that event, and detailed the timing.”

“It has been confusing,” the Sibling said, “to learn of all that has happened while I slept. I knew the Stormfather when he was young. I, formed from the Stone, which was the sibling of Wind and Night. The Night left. Few loved her, or even spoke of her, and it seems Mother replaced her with a being of some of the same essence. A new creature, unconnected to anyone’s perception.

“Now, the Stormfather has changed, and the Nightwatcher has not spoken to me as she used to. My siblings are no longer as I remember. I hate that.”

Something about those timelines itched at Jasnah. Something that made her want to gather the other Veristitalians and set them to work, searching for primary sources. First, though, her uncle had something he wanted to say. She and Navani turned to Dalinar, in the center of the room, who had his eyes closed. It looked as if he were hovering beneath a sea of lights, grass rippling around his feet.

“Uncle?” Jasnah asked.

“I am not ready,” he said, opening his eyes, “to fight Odium.”

“I don’t know what preparation we can make, given the deadline,” Navani said. “A deadline you agreed to.”

“Yes. I did.” He seized a chair from a stack beside some tables draped in tablecloths, the whole pile shifting as he jerked it free, and Jasnah heard a distinctive eep from them. They weren’t alone.

Of course they weren’t. That girl seemed able to wiggle in anywhere. Jasnah glanced into Shadesmar, and saw Lift there—manifesting as a glowing light like a candle’s flame. Alongside someone else. Curious.

“Even when I agreed to the contract,” Dalinar said, setting the chair down for Navani, then fetching another, “I was uncertain, but the chance was too valuable to pass up. Now that I’ve seen one of my mistakes—not preventing this assault—I fear there are more, regardless of what Wit says.”

“What is it I say?” Wit said, slipping into the room, carrying snacks. That was why he’d sneaked off, delaying them? Really? He handed her a plate of fruit. “I hope whatever it is that you said that I said, it was either nasty or clever. Or both. I honestly prefer both.”

“I am worried Odium will outmaneuver me,” Dalinar replied. He glanced at Jasnah and nodded toward the seats, with a question in his eyes. She nodded back, so he fetched her one.

Curious, how he’d changed. She’d read of times when he wouldn’t have worried about anyone else. She’d known him throughout her adulthood as the man who would take care of people even when they didn’t want it. Now, for the first time she could remember, he asked if she wanted his help. Because he knew that sometimes she disliked it when people did things for her that she would rather have done for herself.

She took her seat. Fen pulled over her chair, and Wit placed a small table and arranged food on it in an artistic way, because of course he did. Jasnah realized, absently, that she was hungry. They’d all likely forgotten breakfast in the chaos.

Once in a while, it was nice to have someone take care of you. She didn’t blame others for getting confused about what she wanted; she regularly confused herself. So today, she enjoyed the plate of fruit.

Wit brought over a chair and spun it around the wrong way before settling down among them. When in public, he acted the proper Wit, standing behind her chair, deferring to her. In a setting like this … well, whatever he was, it was above a queen or a highprince. He didn’t need to say it: he could sit among them. They all knew it by now, including Fen, who looked at him the way one might at an eel that could strike at any moment.

“You are wise to be worried,” Wit said to Dalinar. “I am troubled by this new Odium. The power will remember me and hate me, no matter who is at the helm—but the new Vessel stole several of my memories, then let me assume that I’d bested them. This tells us a little of their personality. Not gloating, though the power would probably have enjoyed that.”

“The power … can think?” Jasnah asked.

“Yes,” Wit said. “Ask your spren what happens if fragments of a god are left to their own devices for too long. They stand up, start walking about, and start riding around in people’s earrings. They start caring.

“Each ‘god’ is a slice of a greater entity killed some ten thousand years ago, its power divided. Those fragments have Identities, Intents. Honor: the instinct to make bonds and keep them. Odium: a god’s divine wrath, uncoupled from essential moderating factors like mercy and love.”

“I met another one earlier,” Dalinar said. “On my way up here: Cultivation appeared to me in the form of a woman.”

Jasnah came alert, palafruit halfway to her mouth. “Cultivation spoke to you?” she said. “That’s why you called me in here?”

“I believe so,” Dalinar said. “She looked the same. Sounded the same. Felt the same. It could be a trick of some sort, I admit, but … there was something about the meeting …”

“And she said …” Wit prodded.

“She told me I needed to seek the Spiritual Realm,” Dalinar said. “That I didn’t need to expand my powers as a Bondsmith so much as I needed to expand my understanding, particularly of the past. I cannot travel through time, but I can travel the visions. I can see how the Heralds and Radiants dealt with Odium before. She implied I’ve been on this path for years without realizing it, and if I learn correctly, I will know how to defeat Odium.”

Storms. Jasnah thought of the wonder of being able to travel to other times. She’d dedicated her whole life to studying the past as a way to understand the future. Her efforts, though successful at times, had always been uncertain. Akin to searching shadows for shapes to interpret.

Through Dalinar’s visions, she could see what had made those shapes. It wasn’t actually traveling to the past, but the possibilities offered … “Can you visit any other times though? I thought the visions were more rigid than that.”

“I thought so too,” Dalinar said. “But recently I’ve found the Stormfather’s words about them to be full of … well, not contradictions. Incomplete truths. Cultivation implied there was much more to see and learn.”

“Everything exists in three realms,” Wit said. “Physical, where we live now. Shadesmar, the Cognitive Realm, where minds project their impressions. Finally, the Spiritual Realm. The realm of our souls, our links to our past and to other people.

“The Spiritual Realm is a dangerous, confusing place. Every event in the past still echoes in there, yes, just as the scars upon the body are a record of past wounds. However, when you travel the visions with the Stormfather, Dalinar, you do so in a very carefully prescribed way. To deviate from that course risks getting lost in a place with no directions, no lifelines. A place where even I, as one of the ancients, tread cautiously.”

“Would it really be helpful?” Navani asked. “Dalinar, didn’t the Stormfather imply that the visions can’t show you anything he doesn’t know? So what could you learn?”

“It does seem like a risk,” Fen added. “For something so nebulous.”

“There … is more,” Dalinar said, his hands clasped before him. “Something else that Cultivation said. What happened to Honor, Wit? What truly happened at his death?”

“I don’t know,” Wit admitted, his voice soft, arms crossed before him on the back of his chair. “I was off-planet for the event, to my eternal shame. Other matters drew my attention, and I let the centuries slip away from me. He was erratic when I left. When I returned …” He shrugged. “Gone. The Radiants broken. The world in turmoil following the Recreance. I’ve been trying to catch up ever since.”

“And … do you know the location of his power?” Dalinar asked.

Wit didn’t respond immediately. He took a deep breath and cocked a smile at the corner of his lips. “So. She nudged you in that direction, did she?”

“She did,” Dalinar said. “If we are to fight a god, would it not be best to have one on our side?”

Wait, Jasnah thought. What is he saying?

“I have yet to know a person,” Wit said, “who took up one of those Shards and didn’t regret it, my friend.”

“Same as any other burden of responsibility.”

“Yes,” Wit said, “but orders of magnitude worse.” He looked around the room, and Jasnah noted Fen watching with wide eyes. Not questioning, but obviously out of her league.

They were talking about Dalinar Ascending to the Shard of Honor. Storms.

“That seems a big leap to make,” Jasnah said. “Too big a leap.”

“I can think of nothing else to try,” Dalinar whispered.

“What if we renegotiated the contract?” Jasnah said.

They all looked at her.

“If there is a new Odium,” she said, “he might agree to different terms. Perhaps he will stop the war entirely if we give him accommodations.” She didn’t look at Wit. “What if we let him leave?”

“Jasnah,” Wit said, pained. “We can’t unleash him upon the cosmere.”

“We have to at least consider every option,” Jasnah said. “You said that the other worlds, and the beings that rule them, are content to leave Odium to us. They offer no help or succor, and sometimes you have to think about yourself first. What if we renegotiated?”

“No,” Dalinar said softly. “He took advantage of us once—and he’d only renegotiate if it served him better. He would do so only to take further advantage. I think we need to explore options outside the contract—options like Honor’s power.”

They sat quietly at that, and Jasnah had to admit that negotiating the first time hadn’t worked spectacularly. She looked to Wit, who slumped, offended, as he met her eyes. Keeping Odium from destroying more worlds was one of his primary goals.

“Peace,” she said, resting a hand on his arm. “I’m only asking questions, as I must.”

“I understand,” he said, nodding. And he did seem to. “And what is put upon all of you is unfair. You have every right to be annoyed at the other Shards. I certainly am. Dalinar, you have a good point in what you’re contemplating.”

Dalinar nodded. “I worry that I need something far, far greater than what this contest under any terms can offer. If you bring an army of six men against an army of tens of thousands, you’ll lose. That’s what I’m doing, in facing Odium. What if there’s a better way? What if there’s a way to fight Odium? Defeat, destroy, exile him. Using the power of a god.”

Jasnah shivered, and forced herself to consider it. She had known, even when no one else wanted to acknowledge it, that there was nothing watching or protecting them. All the aphorisms, rituals, and writings were for the comfort of the people at best—or the control of them at worst. She’d accepted this, though at times she had dearly wished for that comfort.

Recently, in talking with Wit, she’d discovered the extent to which she’d been right. There was something up there, it just wasn’t God. It was a group of ordinary people. She didn’t know what terrified her more. The idea of some powerful, all-knowing deity that controlled everything—destroying her free will, yet for some reason still leaving the entire world in so much pain. Or the knowledge that there were beings who ruled the cosmere with immense power—but they had all the foibles, flaws, and limited morality of anyone else.

After contemplation, giving Dalinar’s idea due thought, she still found herself against it. Kings were bad enough. This was far worse.

“Dalinar,” she said, “I don’t feel comfortable with this line of reasoning.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Storms, Jasnah, neither do I. But we face a being of immense strength and intelligence. When I get to that contest in eight days, they are going to outmaneuver me. I’m increasingly certain it will happen.”

“So you’re saying the only way to win,” Fen said, “is to face them as an equal? With the power of Honor?”

“Do you know, Wit?” Dalinar asked. “What happens to the power of a god when they die?”

“It’s different on each world,” Wit said. “On one it was all around, and we didn’t realize it. In another, the god’s power was stuffed in a metaphorical closet—packed into Shadesmar, left to rot. Here, if it wasn’t Splintered after all, then it’s in the Spiritual Realm. I think it might be the very substance of your visions, which behave so interestingly.”

“Cultivation said the same,” Dalinar said. “That if I travel the Spiritual Realm, it will be all around me.”

“But … isn’t it all around us already?” Navani asked. “In the spren, the Stormlight, the power of the Radiants?”

“Yes and no,” Wit said. “This is complicated. A Shard—a god—suffuses everything. Every axon on the world is, in some way, Connected to it. But the Spiritual Realm must hold a core of what Honor used to be. A well of energy, you might say. If you were to Connect to it in the right way, you would ascend to Honor’s position. Then all the ambient power of the world would be part of you. You’d need to find a way to persuade the power to accept you.”

“And if I did want to do that …” Dalinar said.

Wit met his eyes. “Then yes, the Spiritual Realm is where you’d start.” Uncharacteristically subdued, he rested his head on his folded arms. “Navani, did the Sibling notice the visit of a god to their tower?”

Navani looked upward for a moment, then shook her head. “The Sibling says, however, that their mother is … quiet. Sneaky.”

“Her kind tend to be,” Wit mumbled, “for all their enormous size. Tricky lizards who hide where you least expect them. Like someone else I know.” He took up an empty bowl, then threw it across the room toward the stacked tables. It hit the tablecloth covering one and smacked into something, which yelped.

Dalinar stood and spun, toppling his chair, alert, with yellow shockspren breaking around him. A fraction of a second later, he realized who it was. “Lift?” he said. “Again?”

The head of a teenage girl popped out, with round features and long, straight dark hair spilling around her face. A second head emerged beside hers, much older, with a grey mustache.

“Dieno?” Dalinar said, righting his chair and sitting back down.

The Mink seemed embarrassed to have been caught—though as usual Lift didn’t care. She scampered forward and helped herself to the snacks. The Mink stood up and straightened his clothing.

“You could have just asked instead of spying,” Dalinar said. “How did you get in, anyway?”

“Vents,” the Mink said. “And pardon, Blackthorn, the fatal problem with asking is that people can, and do, say no.”

“Did you realize,” Lift said around a mouthful of fruit, “it’s easier to get through a hole if you break your shoulder?”

“Dislocate, child,” the Mink said. “Dislocate your shoulder.”

She shrugged. Jasnah watched the two, considering them. Lift had significant potential as a spy, and Jasnah had contemplated encouraging her in that direction. The Mink though … he was too dangerous. He acted small, unassuming, but he was not loyal to her family, and she did not blame him. In his place, she wouldn’t be either.

“I’ll admit,” the Mink said, stepping up to them, “I didn’t anticipate a discussion of deification. It is … puelo arandan? The Alethi word is …”

“Blasphemous,” Jasnah said.

“Ah, yes,” the Mink said. “That.”

“What did you expect to hear?” Jasnah asked, toying with a small green palafruit but not biting into it.

“A discussion of whether or not to assault Alethkar,” the Mink said, shrugging.

“Alethkar?” Navani said. “Why? If we win, we get it back—and your homeland as well.”

“If you lose?” the Mink asked, looking to Dalinar.

“They keep both kingdoms,” Dalinar said.

“If they control them,” the Mink said. “The contract loophole works both ways, no?”

Wit cocked his head. “I suppose … yes. If we were to assault and reclaim Alethkar before the deadline it would be ours, regardless of the outcome of the contest.”

“When you all scuttled off,” the Mink said, “I assumed you’d seen this, and didn’t want anyone else to get their hopes up as you discussed.”

Reclaim Alethkar? She could help her people become a nation again, not a group of refugees. Jasnah sat up straight and looked to Dalinar, who had hunched forward. He met her eyes, and she saw the truth in them. Even before her own mind—scrambling to work out the logistics—did.

It was impossible.

Kholinar was in the very heart of Alethkar—fortified, home to thousands of Fused and multiple Unmade. They’d need to somehow deliver enough troops to accomplish the assault, pulling them away from every other fortified position—and the distances involved …

The enemy’s assaults were in places it could reach quickly: Thaylenah by ship, Azimir through Shadesmar, and the Shattered Plains via a smaller number of Fused arriving by air. Reaching Alethkar on such short notice would be …

Well, it simply couldn’t be done. Not unless they pulled every Windrunner away, and risked everything on this one gamble.

“The logistics of it are impossible, I’m afraid,” Dalinar said. “Kholinar is too far away and too well fortified.”

“And Herdaz?” the Mink asked. “Barely any Fused. Spy reports say they’ve moved most of their military away, following the collapse of my rebellion.” He stepped closer to Dalinar. “I could reclaim it.”

“We’re going to reclaim it,” Dalinar said. “When I win the contest.”

“Pardon, gancho,” the Mink said, “but I just overheard your reservations about the likelihood of that victory. Even if you were confident, I should not like to trust our freedom to another man’s sword. No matter how comically large said sword may be.” He stepped closer, holding something. A tattered remnant of a banner, one Jasnah knew he kept in his pocket. “You are to be commended for remembering Herdaz in your contract, Blackthorn. I no longer think you will forget us, as the Alethi so often have.

“But you gave me a promise. I should like it fulfilled. First Alethkar, then Herdaz. If you cannot send armies for your homeland, then our promise comes due. I would like to try, and I should like you to keep your oath to me. Troops. Support.”

“Eight days?” Navani asked. “You want us to deliver troops to a nation hundreds of miles away in eight days?”

“The Fourth Bridge,” the Mink said. “Your flying machine—”

“Would take weeks to travel that distance,” Navani said.

“Windrunners, then,” the Mink said. “They can get a person across the continent in under a day.”

“But an entire army?” Navani said.

“We’d need a few hundred at most,” the Mink said. “The members of my personal army, which we have rescued. If you drop us at the border on the western side, we will assault the capital a little inland, reclaiming my homeland.” He placed the tattered remnant before Dalinar on the food table. “Your oath, Blackthorn.”

He stared at it. Damnation. He was going to say yes.

“Dalinar,” Jasnah said. “Look at me.”

He turned from the banner, meeting her eyes.

“Even an assault force of two hundred would require some fifty Windrunners. Windrunners we need to protect what we have. There are barely three hundred! You can’t send so many of them on a quest like this. That would make you—no offense, General Dieno—of the ten fools!”

“I swore an oath, Jasnah,” Dalinar said.

“But—”

“What are we, if we don’t have our word?” Dalinar said. “Dieno. We could use your knowledge in the upcoming battles. Are you certain you must leave us?”

“Yes,” he said. “I won the campaign in Emul for you. Now prove you’re no longer the man who burned my lands in your youth, Dalinar. Keep your word.”

Dalinar nodded. “I will set fifty Windrunners to the task. Go, with my blessing.”

The Mink took back his banner, held it in a fist, then gripped Dalinar’s shoulder in thanks. He rushed out—not looking at Jasnah as he did. Damnation. She liked the man Dalinar had become over the years since they had made a connection reading The Way of Kings after her father’s death. But this version of him could be storming inconvenient at times. She took deep breaths to banish the angerspren at her feet.

“This is right, Jasnah,” Dalinar said, settling in his seat. “We must always do what is right. Those Windrunners will return before the deadline and join the battle. In the meantime, we’ve kept our oath.”

“What is right,” she said, “is not so easy as swearing an oath, Uncle. It’s about what brings the greatest good to the most people—and sometimes that requires making difficult decisions.”

“What makes you think,” he said, “that wasn’t a difficult decision?”

They continued to lock gazes, Jasnah’s will against his, until a slurping sound distracted her and she turned to find Lift standing next to her, watching the two of them like it was some puppet show, a dozen palafruit pits at her feet and another wiggling in her mouth. Storms above … how did that girl manage to pack down so much so quickly? And be so frighteningly skinny at the same time?

“So …” Lift said. “What you were sayin’ earlier. Gonna become a god, eh, Dalinar? Deevy. Real deevy. When you do it, can I put in some requests? I kinda hate how toes feel. You know, whenever I remember I have them, and start thinkin’ about them. Can you fix that? Also, make porridge taste like meat and vice versa.”

“Wait,” Fen said. “What?”

“Porridge. Should taste like meat.”

“Why?”

“It’s all slimy and gross. Meat, it comes out of a body. It should be slimy and gross. Innards and blood and guts and stuff. Meat should taste like porridge.” She spat out the last pit, and Jasnah noticed that remarkably, all the snacks Wit had brought were gone. “So, you know, fix that. Also, war and death and stuff. Actually, there are a whole lotsa things the Almighty should fix and hasn’t. Wonder if he gets distracted by all the prayers.”

“The fact that he’s dead,” Navani said dryly, “might be the most distracting part.”

Dalinar suddenly sat up in his seat. Then stood again, looking skyward.

“The Stormfather,” Ivory whispered in Jasnah’s ear. “I feel him near.”

“What?” Fen asked.

“The Stormfather has overheard our conversation,” Dalinar said. “And he’s not happy. I might … need a few minutes.”

Wind and Truth

After we parted with affection the next day, I watched their cart roll into the distance, pulled by the father with two children riding in the rear, the mother striding with a pack on her back. Dust blew with them, for dust goes where it wishes, ignoring all borders.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

Kaladin had entered a world frozen in time.

The first part of Shinovar—on the slope below the pass—was forested. He walked, silent, with Syl. Passing trees that didn’t so much as quiver. Vines that let him step on them. Grass that lay like corpses.

Yet it didn’t feel dead. It was vibrant, green. But docile. Kaladin crouched down to touch a clump of grass, which trustingly let him. He stood and ran his hands along a branch, which didn’t tremble. He tapped several of the diamond leaves, each thick with water.

It all seemed … frozen. Like he had access to some strange Surge that let him freeze a moment and wander around in it. He felt he could turn back and it would all burst into motion, withdrawing from him in an instant, like lounging troops snapping to attention when Dalinar entered the room.

There were also no lifespren, despite the many plants. What a bizarre place. Bizarre and somehow … wonderful?

He should be unnerved. A land where the plants weren’t afraid of you? Where storms didn’t blow? Where you walked on soil springy beneath the foot, which made a dull thump when you stomped instead of a proper scrape or soft smack.

He found it oddly peaceful. Comforting. Did a deep part of him know humans had once lived on a world full of these plants? Or perhaps … perhaps they weren’t timid or stupid. Perhaps these plants were brave. At the very least, they had never known the tyranny of the storm—and so had never been forced to hide. He found beauty in that.

It helped that Syl was delighted by the place.

She zipped from tree to reed, to vine, to grass, to bush—a ribbon of light, twirling and twisting while she laughed. Anytime she was a ribbon, she shrank back to her tiny size, but she shimmered with a variety of colors.

Szeth moved up alongside Kaladin as they walked, preserving their Stormlight. The next highstorm was days away, and Kaladin didn’t trust Szeth’s promises that the spheres would recharge as usual in Shinovar. After all, he admitted that during his youth, they’d almost never used them—instead relying on dangerous things like candles.

Why in the world hadn’t Shinovar burned down? So many plants would surely provide tinder. Kaladin’s people used candles only during the Weeping.

Syl zipped past, doing a series of loops before going to streak through some of the tinkling leaves. The trees here were bone white with knots of dark brown, and Szeth had seemed amused when Kaladin asked how many trees in his land were strange colors. Most, it appeared, were the ordinary brown and green.

“I’d have thought,” Szeth said as Syl zipped past in the other direction, “that she would find this place dull. Wouldn’t it be less fun to inspect plants that do not respond?”

“Syl loves novelty,” Kaladin said. “And she’s probably having all kinds of fun with plants that are too slow to dodge her pranks.”

“Curious,” Szeth said. “Here, we don’t ascribe to plants volition, or thoughts, or intentions as is common to your speech. I’m only now remembering how odd it was to go east and hear people speaking of plants as if they were animate objects with feelings.”

As an inanimate object with feelings, the sword said from Szeth’s back, I think I should be offended.

“No offense was implied, sword-nimi,” Szeth said.

Oh, good! I won’t kill you then. Ha ha.

Both of them froze, listening to the sword chuckle to itself. Finally they started forward again, along a path through the forest. It wasn’t too overgrown, fortunately. Kaladin tried to imagine how hard it would be to get through here if the plants grew all together and refused to move when prodded.

So far, there hadn’t been much of a chance to talk to Szeth, what with the flying. Or perhaps Kaladin merely told himself that to delay the awkwardness. What was the best way to start a conversation? “Hey, sorry to hear that you’re crazy” didn’t seem appropriate.

Instead he tried, “Dalinar says you’ve had a rough time lately.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Szeth replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I do not consider a time ‘rough’ or ‘not rough.’ I simply do as my master commands.”

“And … you don’t wish it were another way?”

Szeth eyed him. Kaladin approached a tree branch hanging low over the path, then rapped it with his hand, feeling foolish when it didn’t pull back. He ducked underneath.

“I am here,” Szeth said, “because this is the next step in my progress as a Skybreaker. My people, and my land, need me.”

“So you’re making a choice,” Kaladin said. “Not just doing as commanded. That seems good.”

“I was commanded to find a quest of relevance,” Szeth said, “and this presented itself.” He followed Kaladin under the branch, his shorter stature meaning he didn’t need to duck nearly as far. He moved on ahead faster, as if finished with the conversation.

Storming man. Kaladin caught up. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

“It?”

“Life.” Storms, shouldn’t this be easier? “Dalinar says that things you’ve done have left you scarred. Not only physically, but mentally.”

“Scars exist,” Szeth said. “They are permanent once you bear them. So you endure. Not only physically, but mentally.”

“What if they aren’t permanent?” Kaladin said. “Stormlight can heal physical scars. What if mental scars can heal too? If not remove them, then make them more limber, easier to bear—”

“That is irrelevant,” Szeth said. “I do not need to be healed, as I do not deserve anything of the sort. I have killed, and I bear the weight of those killings. To wish otherwise would be to minimize the damage I have done—an insult to those who whisper at me from the shadows, calling for my soul to burn in recompense for the blood I’ve spilled.”

Storms. “Szeth,” Kaladin said, “you can’t live like that.”

“I exist. I do what is needed. Eventually, I will no longer exist. That is enough.”

“But—”

“I will not speak of this further,” Szeth said, eyes forward. “I know what Dalinar intends you to do with me, as I am not deaf. It is not needed.”

“He wants you to listen to me though.”

“All he asked of me was to bring you,” Szeth said. “Therefore, you are here. You. The one who nearly killed me. Here. In my land, on my quest.” Szeth looked at him in the overcast forest, those oddly shaped eyes of his seeming at home in dimmer light.

“I trust Dalinar because I must,” Szeth continued. “So I am not allowed to resent you. Nevertheless, do not assume I will endure you trying to ‘save’ me, Kaladin Stormblessed. Not all beneath your judging gaze are in need of your protection. Keep your attention on finding the Herald.”

Szeth turned and continued on, purposeful.

Syl landed beside Kaladin and whistled softly, growing to full size. “Well, he’s something,” she whispered.

Kaladin gritted his teeth and stalked forward, and Syl walked alongside—not flying, instead imitating his posture. She seemed to think he should try talking to Szeth more, but storms, Kaladin understood the frustration of someone trying to force you to feel better. The sole person who’d ever managed it had been Adolin—and he had done so without pandering or trying to cheer Kaladin up. Somehow. Maybe Adolin should have come on this mission instead. Storming man.

Regardless, Kaladin needed another tactic. He refused to manipulate Szeth into accepting help.

“All right then,” Kaladin said, joining Szeth again. “Dalinar wants me to recruit Ishar the Herald. Any ideas on that?”

“It is a wise mission, given by a wise man,” Szeth said. “But we do not know where Ishar, or Ishu-son-God as we know him, is hiding. Plus, there is something dangerous in this land. My mission here involves a … cleansing and retribution owed to the people of Shinovar.”

“Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

“One of the Unmade is here,” Szeth said. “Awakened years before you became a Radiant, before the first oaths were sworn. My people have embraced it for some reason, and welcomed in its darkness and its manipulations.”

“How can you be sure it’s an Unmade?” Kaladin said. “It took Dalinar ages to recognize the Thrill as an Unmade.”

“Because,” Szeth said, “before my exile, I met it.” He paused for an instant. “It began during my youth. With … a rock.”

The others left, allowing Dalinar to confront the Stormfather alone in that garden room.

He had grown accustomed to having the Stormfather in the back of his mind. Like a thought; the kind of nagging, persistent one that hovered at the perimeter of your consciousness. The awful feeling as you waited for a battle report, already seeing that your side was faring poorly.

Dalinar wished that his metaphor for the sensation weren’t so negative, that his relationship with his spren was more like others’. Some of that was Dalinar’s fault, because of events like when he’d forced the Stormfather to operate an Oathgate as if he were a common Blade. It was partly the spren’s fault, like when the Stormfather had refused to help Kaladin at Urithiru a few weeks ago, and Dalinar had been forced to step in.

They had their peaceful moments, but just as many disagreements. More, really. And often Dalinar could feel the Stormfather’s rage flooding through him, as if he were a chasm during a flash flood. Like today. When the Stormfather spoke, the force of it made Dalinar’s fingers tremble.

What are you doing? the Stormfather demanded, his voice like thunderheads crashing against one another. What are you contemplating?

“I am exploring every option I have,” Dalinar said, keeping his voice calm as he stood among the writhing plants. “Like any good general.”

I heard you discussing Honor’s power, the Stormfather thundered. Why, Dalinar? Must you think so highly of yourself? You’re ruining everything!

Dalinar braced himself against the force of the words. “Cultivation implied this was my next step,” Dalinar said. “And I agree. I fear that by myself, I can’t defeat Odium.”

A sudden gale washed over him: a completely impossible wind, considering he was in a small enclosed space. The wind seemed to blow away the room, turning it to Stormlight—the walls, plants, spare tables all weathering away like sand caught up in a tempest.

In a moment Dalinar was standing in an empty, open blue—hanging as if in the air far above the world. It was … it was a vision. Like the ones that had propelled him on this course in life. His body would still be in that room, perhaps collapsed upon the floor, while his mind saw what the Stormfather wanted.

An open sky, and a figure building before him in the shape of dark clouds extending in both directions to the horizon. A face manifesting in the natural shapes of the billowing clouds—features he knew as the Stormfather’s. Bearded, though the hair vanished into the mixing and churning clouds. Inhuman eyes glowing with crackling lightning. A daunting, oppressive sight for one who hovered—tiny—before it.

But Dalinar had been the imperious general staring down a subordinate. He knew these tricks.

“Is it possible for me to take up Honor?” Dalinar demanded.

No.

“Wit says otherwise.”

Wit is a liar.

“He has offered us more help than you have.”

He cares only for his own plans, Dalinar. Not for this land or its people.

Unfortunately, Wit had said as much to Dalinar in the past. So he considered, and he tried to modulate his tone.

“Why hasn’t the power of Honor taken another Vessel in all this time?” he finally asked.

I will not give you answers, Dalinar. The Stormfather’s voice grew softer, smaller. You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to be better than your brother.

“My brother?” Dalinar said, frowning.

He was arrogant. I knew it. I’ve watched both of you for a long time. Even at his worst though, Gavilar didn’t strive for godhood. Why, Dalinar? Why must you seek this?

“Because I’m overwhelmed, Stormfather,” Dalinar said, letting his exhaustion show. “Because I have to somehow save everyone, but I’m just one man, confused and outmatched. Because the only time I’ve ever felt like I had any hint of control was when I stood up before Odium and touched the Spiritual Realm.”

Unity, the Stormfather said.

“Yes.”

This is not for you to seek or decide. The power cannot go to one who wants it, Dalinar.

“You said it was impossible earlier,” Dalinar said.

Impossible the way you want it to happen.

“And Cultivation, who brought this plan to me in the first place?”

Traitor. She should know the implausibility of what she suggests.

“So which is it, Stormfather?” Dalinar demanded. “Is it impossible, or merely implausible? Is it wrong, or is it the only way to unite people, as I’ve been trying all along?”

It … This is not my plan.

“Your plan?” Dalinar pushed. “I thought this was Honor’s plan. You said he charged you to find people for the visions—so they could prepare for the coming dangers. You’re filling a role, just like me.”

You have no idea what you’re talking about.

“I only know what you’ve told me,” Dalinar said, feeling his anger mount. “I know that I’ve been stymied and cut off every time I’ve tried to make progress! I’ve had to fight you almost as much as I fight our enemy!”

Honor’s plan—

“Honor abandoned us!” Dalinar shouted. “We don’t even know why or how! All you’ll say is that he died, he faded away, he left visions and some plan for us to force Odium into a contest of champions. Vague, without real instructions.”

It’s working though.

“Is it?” Dalinar said, gesturing toward the continent far below. “You’ve seen what the enemy is doing.”

I … know now.

“They’ve outmaneuvered us already,” Dalinar said. “And they will do so again!” He heard thunder, and found he was growing. When he spoke, his own words were punctuated by rumblings. “The enemy has changed, Stormfather, but whoever they are, they’re a god—and can match whatever I try! You don’t think he can? What if he brings a Fused to fight me? An Unmade? A thunderclast? Some being from offworld with the power to tear down cities and lay waste to thousands?

“You think I can defeat that in some contest? I’m going to lose unless I find some kind of edge! All along, we were so focused on getting the agreement from him that we didn’t consider how to win! Is it any real surprise that I’m looking for a third option! So are you going to help me for once, or keep standing in my storming way?”

He cut off, a hundred more thoughts running through his head, each with an attached frustration. He stopped the tide, breathing heavily, and found that—strangely—he was now the same size as the Stormfather. That was an impossibility, since the Stormfather extended to infinity. But in this place, reality bent, and he could look the spren straight in the eyes.

What you want … is dangerous.

“It’s not what I want, Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “But it might be the only way.”

The Stormfather rumbled softly, and he glanced down, away from Dalinar. What of the Heralds? Perhaps the Heralds can help.

“I sent Szeth and Kaladin to try to retrieve one,” Dalinar said. “But what do you think? Can they solve this?”

Maybe. But … they are not reliable anymore, are they? Time has broken them … I’ve broken them. He looked back at Dalinar. I cannot say if the power would accept someone like you as a host, after what happened with Tanavast.

“And what happened with Tanavast?” Dalinar said.

It’s … worse than I told you, Dalinar.

“So you lied.”

Yes. Does that surprise you? Anger you?

Dalinar took a deep breath, and found that he was relieved to finally get an admission.

“Yes,” Dalinar said. “But I can move beyond that.”

The Stormfather rumbled, and the dark thunderheads calmed. I’m supposed to be better than lies, Dalinar. I should be constant. I am the winds. I do not lie.

“You are a person,” Dalinar said, “capable of growth. Capable of learning. If that is the case, then you are capable of mistakes.”

The Stormfather at last met his eyes again. I don’t know what would happen if you became Honor before the contest. I do not like even thinking about it. However, you might find answers that will … change your perspective. In the Spiritual Realm, as Cultivation said. You can take that step, and see the past, but do not seek the power of Honor.

Be warned. I will not be able to control what happens to you, or where you are taken. It is a process that is confusing to any who is not themself a Shard of Adonalsium. Even your Wit, for all his boasting and self-importance, can barely fathom the Spiritual Realm. Regardless, if you look into the Spiritual Realm … you will see. Perhaps you will see.

“See what, exactly?”

Our shame.

The vision vanished in the blink of an eye, and Dalinar found himself back in the tower. Standing up, remarkably, rather than having collapsed.

Wit was there. Sitting on a table with one leg up, next to a fern growing from the floor.

“Could you see that?” Dalinar asked him.

“I could hear it,” Wit said. “He’s both right and wrong. I do care about all of you, Dalinar.”

“But Odium remaining captive on our planet is more important to you than any of our lives.”

Wit nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” Dalinar said, stretching, exhaustionspren buzzing around him like insects. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“People think I detest honesty,” Wit said, “because they don’t often like to hear what I have to say, and so must assume I speak only lies.”

“They’d probably enjoy it more,” Dalinar said, “if you didn’t present both truth and lies in a way that belittles the listener.”

“Fair enough,” Wit said, hopping off the table. “I assume you’ve decided to go forward with this plan?”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, realizing it was true. “I want to start as soon as possible.”

“You’ll need a way to track time in there,” Wit said. “Even if we do this the smart way—which means sending your mind, but not your body—it would be easy for you to let months pass. That obviously won’t do. You have an appointment to keep, after all.”

“… Months?” Dalinar said.

“If not years. Decades. Time is entirely different in the Spiritual Realm. Storms, in some corner cases, you could vanish for what feels to you like a few hours—while decades of time pass out here. The visions so far were carefully curated and monitored by your spren, preventing you from being lost.”

“Is there a way for you to monitor for us?”

Wit fished in his pocket. He brought out a little clock, with two straps on the sides. The symbols on the face were unfamiliar to Dalinar. “Silverlight Mercantile,” Wit said to his questioning glance. “Adjustable to local time on different planets, if you swap out the face. Here, let me see that thing on your forearm.”

Dalinar held up his arm, where he still wore Navani’s fabrial bracer—it had a mechanism that kept the time and the date for him.

“All right,” Wit said, “this should work. You know how you do that thing where you teach yourself languages by bonding to a region? Do that, but with the clocks.”

“Could you be clearer? ‘Do that’ isn’t much to go on.”

“Take my clock’s soul,” Wit said, holding up his, “and Connect it by a thread of power to your own clock, grounding yours in the Physical Realm while you travel.” Wit looked at him. “Poke this with Stormlight, then poke that. Try it.”

Dalinar drew in Stormlight, then touched Wit’s clock, Infusing it with power. When he took his finger away, a line of light followed. He touched his clock, and something seemed to snap. The dial quivered for a moment, then continued as if nothing had happened.

“Excellent,” Wit said.

“So …”

“So the clock on your arm will show the same time that mine does,” Wit explained. “The date as well. Without this, your clock could adapt to your perception of time in the Spiritual Realm. Meaning it might feel and read like an hour has passed—but in reality you could return here and find all of us dead and gone. Well, everyone else. I tend to linger. Rather like a winter cough.”

“What about winter makes one cough?” Dalinar asked.

“Oh, right,” Wit said. “Roshar. No common cold. You have no idea how wonderful life is here, do you?”

“Are there places worse than the one being threatened with utter domination by a dark, destructive god?”

“You’d be surprised,” Wit said. “A few have political fundraisers.” He strapped on his clock. “We’ll try a quick test. So long as we keep you tethered, time shouldn’t pass too outrageously for you compared to us, and you should be able to send your mind into a vision, then return as you wish.”

“Should be able?”

“Should be able,” Wit admitted.

No quip. That was always a bad sign.

“You’ll need to open a perpendicularity,” Wit said, “step into it, then let the light take you. But not all of you. Push all the way through—but only with your mind, or you’ll end up in Shadesmar.”

Storms. That sounded difficult. And confusing.

But what else was he to do? “Let’s get Navani and Jasnah in here to monitor me, then we’ll give it a try.”

Wind and Truth

Would that men could always do the same—if I could enshrine one law in all further legal codes, it would be this. Let people leave if they wish.

—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable

The drizzle had fully committed to rain by the time Radiant’s team moved into position. If those last few Ghostbloods were coming to the meeting, they would arrive soon. And if there weren’t more coming … well, an enemy conference was likely underway, making it even more important that Radiant get into that hideout.

So, she helped Gaz wheel a small tool cart down the roadway, past rainspren like candles, each with a single eye on the top. They reached an intersection right in front of the Ghostblood hideout. She found the Ghostbloods setting up here to be impressively blatant. When others made hideouts in grimy corners of the worst parts of a city, they chose the middle of a storming military camp. Some people higher in the Alethi military must be in Mraize’s pocket. She’d have work to do uncovering them all.

Once in position, she and Red began to set up a small pavilion in the rain. They’d dropped their Lightweavings, relying on hooded cloaks to mask their faces, in case that sand could reveal them. Soon someone from the Ghostbloods—as expected—came to check on them.

It wasn’t the masked guard. Damnation. Radiant kept calm and allowed Red to handle it while she hung back, fiddling with their tools. The guard she wanted—the one with the mask—emerged from the shadowed porch but did not approach.

“Hey,” the other Ghostblood said as he arrived. “What’s this?” His name was Shade, a man with Horneater blood, though he looked more Alethi despite the forked beard. She thought the masked woman had fetched him as they were setting up.

“We’re supposed to level this intersection,” Red said. He noted Shade’s Alethi uniform. “I have the orders somewhere, Sergeant.”

“You’re supposed to work in the rain?” Shade demanded.

“Yeah. Storming unfair.” Red thumbed at the little pavilion. “At least we’ve got that. If you want to take it up with the camp operations commander, I wouldn’t mind a little time off.”

Shade picked through the tools, then poked around in the pavilion—while the masked guard lurked by the building. Adolin’s sessions with Radiant let her spot the readiness of a trained soldier: the stance, the alert attention.

Calm, careful, Radiant rearranged the tools after Shade finished poking through them. He was built like a boulder, so it would be easy to assume he was the more dangerous, but he didn’t have the casual grace the masked woman did. Shade stepped back in thought, rain dripping down his beard. He wouldn’t want to draw attention, but he also wouldn’t want random workers so close to their base, maybe hearing things they shouldn’t.

“Pack up and work somewhere else,” he told Red. “For at least a couple more hours. You don’t need authorization; just tell them I gave the orders.”

Red glanced at Radiant, and—hood pulled tight—she nodded.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Red said with a sigh.

The two of them slowly began disassembling the pavilion. Shade returned to the masked guard and they exchanged whispers. Then the guard fell into position by the door while Shade slipped inside, passing a large jar of the black sand that had been tied hanging outside.

“That’s a problem,” Red whispered over the sound of beating rain. “Did you catch their exchange?”

“Mmm …” Pattern said from Radiant’s coat. “He said, ‘I want them gone by the time Aika and Jezinor get here.’ And the woman said, ‘Ya.’”

“We were supposed to lure out the short one,” Red said. “We need that mask.”

“I’ll go in close and deal with her,” Radiant said.

“You sure?” Red asked. “What if she makes noise?”

“I’ll be quick,” she replied, noting Gaz as he came trotting up to them.

“My part’s done,” Gaz said. “Why are we taking the pavilion down?”

“Get angry about it,” Radiant said, with a nudge from Veil. “Demand to know who gave these orders. Pretend you’re our foreman.”

Gaz launched into it with gusto, complaining loudly that they didn’t have authorization to set up anywhere else. He did well enough he even drew a few angerspren. Perfect. Shallan and Red set up the pavilion again—they’d barely started disassembling it—while Gaz demanded to speak to the sergeant who had changed their orders. With that as an excuse, Radiant told Pattern to wait behind, then walked over to the building. She stepped out of the rain into the covered porch, and hesitated by the door.

The guard emerged from the shadows, mask peeking from the front of her hood. As on Iyatil, it made the woman seem … inhuman. Painted wood, without carvings of facial features—hiding all except those eyes. Locked on to her.

“Oh!” Radiant said. “Sorry. But, um, our foreman wants to talk to you. Um. It’s … um. Sorry …”

The guard took her by the arm. Radiant twisted and whipped up her other hand—pushing a small stiletto toward the guard’s throat. The enemy caught it, her eyes narrowing, then grunted and shoved Radiant backward, trying to trip her.

A year training with Adolin gave Radiant some unexpected grit. She resisted the shove and kept her stance, locking eyes with the masked creature.

Now, she ordered her armor.

In a blink, the armor formed. Not around her, but around the guard, freezing her in place as it had Red earlier. Radiant caught a glimpse of a pair of shocked eyes as the helmet encased the woman’s face.

Shallan! the creationspren said, eager.

“Just keep her mouth closed,” she said. “Like the drawing Shallan did for you. Right?”

Shallan! they replied in a chorus. The only sound from the guard was muffled exertion, so hopefully the helmet plan was working. Radiant thought they’d explained it well enough to the creationspren: a mechanism that held the jaw shut by making the helmet tighter at the bottom, below the mask.

She checked the sand in the hanging jar. Still black, as she’d hoped. They’d said that it took an intelligent spren to activate the stuff—which made sense, otherwise it would be useless, turning white in warning whenever someone got anxious. Her Plate spren hadn’t affected it even when forming.

Red and Gaz came jogging up. “It worked,” Radiant whispered, her heart thumping from the exchange.

Gaz nodded toward the woman’s motionless left hand, raising a knife toward Radiant—the gauntlet had simply formed around it, letting the blade peek out. She’d missed that entirely. A good warning. A year of practice had given her some skill, but it was a weak substitute for a lifetime of battle experience.

“Eh,” Red whispered, wheeling over the cart, “she could have healed from it.”

“And what would that have done to the sand?” Gaz whispered, gesturing toward the glass jar. “We’re not sure if a healing will activate it or not. If so, the first person who stepped through that door would have known a Radiant had been here.” He inspected the armor closer, locked down as it was. “Yet this did work. I can barely hear her.”

The captive woman didn’t even tremble from struggling to escape. Together, they managed to tip her into the two-wheeled cart, throw a tarp over her, then wheel it into their small pavilion. Had any guards on the walls seen? Darcira and the strike team were poised to intercept any who came running, but still she worried.

Move quickly, Shallan thought, taking over from Radiant. She didn’t want the last few Ghostbloods to arrive at the door and find the guard missing.

Gaz put his arms around the head of the armored woman to be in position. He nodded.

Shallan touched the armor. Could you dismiss just the helmet please? she asked.

Shallan! the armor said. The helmet vanished in a puff of Stormlight. Gaz snapped his arms around the woman’s neck, executing a perfect choke hold. Shallan needed Radiant again for a moment while watching the struggling woman be strangled, her eyes bulging, her skin going a deep red around the mask.

Gaz didn’t kill her, though he held on longer than Radiant thought necessary. He’d explained earlier: assuming your attacker didn’t want to kill you, the best way to escape a choke hold was to pretend to fall unconscious early. So Gaz ignored the struggles, the painspren, the frantic eyes, the sudden limpness and counted to himself softly.

She’d never asked how he knew this so well.

Gaz nodded, and Shallan dismissed the armor, then began stripping to her undergarments while the two other Lightweavers efficiently undressed the guard, then bound and gagged her. Gaz had warned Shallan that people usually didn’t stay unconscious for long after being choked out. Indeed, the guard was stirring as Shallan finished re-dressing, wearing the woman’s clothing. Utilitarian brown leathers that weren’t particularly formfitting, along with a hooded cloak and a frightening number of knives strapped across her person.

Though Shallan was accustomed to being short compared to the Alethi, she was a tad taller than this offworlder. Close enough, hopefully. She already had her hair under a wig, but her options had been limited, so she was distressed to notice that the guard had closer-cropped hair than the pictures had depicted. Storms. She’d cut her hair, which meant Shallan would have to leave the hood up indoors. Would that seem odd?

Red knelt beside the figure, then—appearing more unnerved by this than stripping a captive—tried to figure out how to remove the mask. Turned out it was bound in place by two cords, which he undid, and pulled the red-orange mask free. Shallan had expected it to stick—she’d always felt that Iyatil had worn hers so long that the skin had grown over it. That proved an incorrect assumption; the mask was obviously removed and cleaned often, but it was also worn so continuously that it left imprints on the guard’s face.

Her skin was as pale as Shallan’s, and without the mask she seemed far less dangerous. Though she was probably in her middle years, her face was smooth, almost childlike.

Stop that, Shallan thought, taking the mask from Red. You need to stop comparing all Shin people to children. It was a bad habit. Besides, this woman wasn’t even Shin—she was an offworlder who just happened to look Shin.

Shallan tied on the mask and pulled up her hood. The mask covered her full face, and was peaked slightly at the center, sloped at the sides. It was wide enough that her ears would barely be visible. Aside from the eyeholes, it had two holes near the nose for breathing, and a small portion was missing for the mouth—like a bite had been taken out of it at the chin.

Red nodded. “Looks pretty good.”

“I don’t know,” Gaz replied, scratching his cheek. “It would fool a casual passerby. But Ghostbloods?”

Shallan fell into an imitation of the woman’s stance. Dangerous, ready. Stepping with the kind of casual grace that took years to perfect. She narrowed her eyes behind the mask, mimicking the woman’s expression—conveying it through posture.

Well done, Veil thought.

Red glanced at Gaz, cocking an eyebrow.

“All right, fine,” Gaz said. “I still find it creepy how she can do things like that. Just don’t take the hood off. The hair is wrong.”

A moment later, Darcira ducked into the pavilion. “You’re not in place yet?”

“Going now,” Shallan said in a whisper, as it was easier to mask her voice that way.

“Did you find your watchpost?” Darcira said to Gaz.

“Yeah,” he said. “Neutralized them fast enough to show up here and help. What took you so long?”

“Had to go and position the strike team, if you forgot,” Darcira said. “What do we do if there were more than two observation posts watching the base?”

None of them could answer that, but they’d spotted only two in their sweep of the area. They had to trust in their skills. Shallan slipped one of her team’s spanreeds into her sleeve, glanced at Pattern—dimpling the wood of the cart, humming to himself nervously—then waved goodbye. She left them, instead falling into place by the alcove. She maintained the same posture and stance as before. Sticking to shadows. Not speaking.

You can do this, Veil whispered.

Her heart still thrummed like listener war drums. She was going to enter the enemy stronghold alone—and could not use her powers. But it was the only way. What did you do when there was a guard watching for you?

You became the guard.

Not five minutes later, Shallan spotted two people trotting up to the safehouse. Aika and Jezinor, a pair of Thaylen traders. They’d arrived with Queen Fen’s retinue, which explained why they were some of the last. They’d needed to find an excuse to come to the Shattered Plains.

Shallan’s nervousness faded as she made a good show of checking their features with her hands, then holding the glass jar of sand up to each one. Neither seemed to notice anything off. She knocked on the door, as she’d seen done before. Shade opened it and waved the other two in. Shallan slipped in herself, and he held the door open for her. They’d be trusting their watchposts to send spanreed warnings if anything approached the safehouse. Posting a guard outside for too long risked drawing attention.

This was it. Veil was right, she could do this. Unless they asked her to say too much. Unless there was a third watchpost they hadn’t found. Unless her disguise failed.

It was too late now. She had walked confidently straight into the den. Now she either proved to be a predator herself, or she got eaten.

Navani left Dalinar alone in the room with the plants to talk to the Stormfather while she stepped outside with the others, knowing he’d fill her in later.

She entered a world of chaos. Strategists planning, messengers running orders, a world spinning up to deal with another crisis. It was time to be a queen. Which regrettably meant dealing with all the random issues that no one else could. At the perimeter of the room, at least a dozen people waited for her attention.

So many systems had fallen apart during the occupation. Schooling had been ignored. Trade for less important supplies—everything from extra buttons to feed for pet axehounds—had been interrupted. Now, with the tower awakened, many problems were being solved while others—such as who got to use which services when—were just beginning.

They could handle it without her, but they didn’t know it. And … perhaps she needed to banish such thoughts. She was important to the administration of this tower, this kingdom. Vital even.

So she went into motion, assigning some of her staff to various problems. Makal to rehouse people whose living quarters now turned out to be important for other reasons. Venan to organize meals for everyone attending the meeting, and to covertly keep a list of who was sending what messages where, just in case.

Next she found Highprince Sebarial and Palona waiting for her. They had learned an unfortunate lesson: that sometimes you had to put yourself where Navani could see you in order to get her time. They had questions about how to get supplies into the city if there was a war on the Shattered Plains.

“We can’t keep relying on the Oathgates,” Sebarial said, rubbing his forehead. The girthy man had gone back to wearing an open-fronted takama, now that the weather was summer at the tower, and his belly poked out in a way he reportedly thought was distinguished. “But organizing shipments from Azir up through these mountains is going to be an enormous hassle. Flying them in will be prohibitively expensive in Stormlight unless we can make more airships. Yes, we can grow food now, but other supplies …”

“Bring me proposals,” Navani said, looking over Palona’s ledgers.

“This was supposed to make me rich!” Sebarial said. “I was Highprince of Commerce! I was supposed to be able to skim thousands to line my own pockets! But I can barely make any of this balance. There’s nothing to skim!”

“Don’t mind him, Brightness,” Palona said. “He’s having a rough time with how responsible he’s becoming.”

“You’re good at being useful, Sebarial,” Navani said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“My darkest secret,” he grumbled. “I still pay for my household staff, vacations, and massages out of public funds, I’ll have you know. It’s a huge scandal.”

“I’m sure Brightness Navani knows what a miscreant you are, gemheart,” Palona said, patting his arm.

He sighed. “We’re mobilizing troops to Thaylenah and the Shattered Plains. You’re authorizing active battle pay, then? You realize this is going to dip into what little we have remaining? We might be able to offer extra rations instead of battle pay in some cases.”

“Thank the Almighty for the emeralds we got on the Shattered Plains,” Palona said. “It’s the only way we’re making enough food for everyone right now.”

“I’ll see if we can get more time with the Radiant Soulcasters,” Navani said. “Given the way the tower is functioning, we can have them working at an increased speed.”

“They break gemstones as they work, Brightness,” Sebarial said. “Even Radiant Soulcasters need gems as a focus, which means we can’t continue like this forever. We’ll need a gemheart ranch up here, but there isn’t a lot of space, so we can’t lose the Shattered Plains.”

She did her best to calm him, then took a meeting with Highprince Aladar on the status of the lighteyes. There was a lot of general panic about Jasnah’s work to free the Alethi slaves, a decision that Dalinar had copied for Urithiru after some persuasion. It would be a slow process, designed to take effect over time, with social systems in place to facilitate. Jasnah, as usual, had done her research.

However, the lighteyes were pushing back. “Tradition will be cast to the winds,” Aladar said. “The upright, natural order of things is being trampled. How can the lighteyed families maintain themselves without lands and taxes? What does it even mean to be lighteyed any longer?”

“It means what it has always meant,” Navani said.

“Which is?” Aladar asked. “Brightness, with the elevation of Stormblessed to a full house, and now to third dahn, what about the other Radiants? More than three-quarters of them were darkeyed and are now light. It’s chaos!”

“It’s a problem for after the contest, Aladar,” Navani said. “When we’re not focused on a mass invasion. For now, I need logistical work from you. Make certain that supplies are transferred per the generals’ requests. Fen can provision some of the soldiers we send her, but if we move battalions to Narak they’ll run out of water quickly if we don’t prepare. Also, make sure to check on Adolin and get him what he needs.”

The stately bald man shook his head and sighed. “As you wish—but my concerns won’t go away, Brightness. This problem is a bubbling cauldron. It’s going to overflow. Only the invasions are stopping it.”

“I know,” she said. “But let’s worry about the crisis we are facing now first, Aladar.”

He bowed, then went to see to her orders. She tried not to be annoyed—and commanded the appearing irritationspren to vanish. Aladar was reasonable for a highlord, and was simply passing on what the less reasonable highlords were thinking. They were a powerful contingent, and hadn’t failed to notice that—after years of politicking—almost everyone who had opposed Dalinar was now dead. Rumors about what had really happened to Sadeas churned, for all that Jasnah worked behind the scenes to quash them.

Yes, the upper ranks of the lighteyes were a bubbling cauldron. Unfortunately for them, the darkeyes had been boiling for far longer—and they suddenly had access to advocates in the form of people who could bend the laws of reality. She suspected that if it came to a head, the lighteyes would discover how little “tradition” was worth in the face of centuries of pent-up rage.

Navani put that problem out of her mind for the time being. It was dangerous to do so, but she had to perform mental triage. War was upon them, and for eight more days she needed to keep everyone pointed the same direction. She worked through a dozen other problems as functionaries and aides found her. She kept turning and finding lifespren swirling around her, or gloryspren skulking by the ceiling, or any number of them darting around. It was like she was some storming heroine from a story, the silly type where a young and innocent girl always had a thousand lifespren or whatever bobbing around her.

As she worked, she kept glancing toward the room where Dalinar met with the Stormfather. He’d always been ambitious. But this?

Is it right, what he contemplates? she asked the Sibling. Ascending to Honor?

Someone will need to eventually, the Sibling said. The power can’t be left to its own devices. It will come awake.

Why hasn’t it already? It’s been thousands of years.

Whatever the reason, be glad. These powers aren’t like the tiny pieces that become spren. The power of a Shard needs a partner, a Vessel. Without it …

What? Navani asked.

Great danger. We do not think as humans do. To separate the power from those who are attached to the Physical Realm … that should frighten you. It is not so terrible a thing for part of me to despise you. But for the power of a god to? Dangerous. For all of us.

Navani shivered at the Sibling’s tone, but had to keep working. She checked in with her scholars, who had been waiting patiently in the next room—one of the few small ones that made a ring around the lifts up here. Inside, seven ardents had set up a display. Navani hated to make them cart it all the way up here, but despite the faster lifts, there just wasn’t time for her to go elsewhere for meetings. People needed to come to her.

Rushu met her at the doorway, in her usual grey ardent’s robes, sweat trickling down her brow. Indeed, this room was uncomfortably warm. The pretty woman was, as usual, trailed by several young male ardents eager for her attention. In this case they’d volunteered to set up Rushu’s presentation. Even after all these years, Navani couldn’t decide if Rushu was oblivious or deliberate in the way she ignored masculine interest.

“Brightness!” Rushu said, bowing as she entered. “Thank you for making the time.”

“I don’t have long, I’m afraid,” Navani said. “Dalinar’s antagonizing the Stormfather again, and I’ll need to go the moment he’s ready to talk.”

“Understood, Brightness,” Rushu said, walking her to a counter set up with some fabrials and a small oven burning Soulcast coal, of all things. A separate attractor fabrial above it collected the smoke and invisible deadly gases in a sphere of swirling blackness, allowing the small oven to burn without scent or the need for a chimney. Flamespren played within, their iridescent forms mimicking the shape of the fire and the molten red coloring of the hearts of coal.

Beside the oven was a more modern heating device, a large ruby fabrial like the ones they’d installed in many rooms. Those were proving, to the Sibling’s annoyance, more effective than the tower’s ancient methods, which required heating air in a boiler at the center of each floor, then blowing it into the specific room when requested. While that was amazing, a simple ruby heating fabrial didn’t waste energy keeping massive boilers going all the time. Unfortunately, modern fabrials had other problems, at least in the eyes of the Sibling.

“We’ve only had a day or so to work,” Rushu said, “but I wanted to show you our progress. This was an enlightened idea you had—and could revolutionize the fabrial art! Brightness … this could be your legacy.”

“Our legacy, Rushu,” Navani said. “You’re doing the work.”

“Pardon, Brightness. It’s your idea. Your genius.”

Navani prepared another complaint, then … then discarded it. Storms, maybe she was growing. “Thank you, Rushu. Let’s not assume we’ve changed the world after one day’s work though. Show me what you’ve done.”

Rushu unlatched the glass front of the oven. The group of flamespren within shivered as the cool air entered, then continued to frolic, taking the shapes of small minks cavorting over the surface of the burning coal.

She plucked a coal out with a pair of tongs, then nodded to one of her assistants. The heating fabrial next to the oven had an outlet valve: basically, a hole drilled into the gemstone that they kept plugged with an aluminum stopper. The assistant unscrewed the plug and opened the valve, usually something quite inadvisable. Because the moment he did so, the flamespren in the heating fabrial—a vital piece of what powered it—would escape.

This one scrambled out onto the plug and immediately started to vanish back into the Cognitive Realm. Then Rushu held her coal close to it. Another ardent used tuning forks to play what they hoped was a comforting tone to the spren. Instead of vanishing, the flamespren hopped onto the coal in Rushu’s hand and let her deposit it in the oven. She came out a moment later with a different flamespren on another coal, blinking glowing red eyes, red “fur” blazing along its form.

Calmed by the tone, it let her bring it over to the fabrial. They trapped it inside using modern techniques of Stormlight diffusion. Then, with the gemstone plugged and a new spren inside, they recharged the fabrial with a Radiant’s help and turned it back on so it began heating again.

What abomination are you creating now? the Sibling asked in Navani’s head.

Abomination? Navani replied. Did you not see what we just did?

Enslaving spren, the Sibling said, in torment and captivity.

Navani leaned down by the front glass of the oven, where the spren were scampering across the coals. Torment, you say? Tell me, Sibling, which of these spren was the one held captive? If it was tormented, I can’t see any lasting effect.

It’s still wrong to keep spren in such small prisons, the Sibling said.

“Brightness,” Rushu said, leaning in beside her and looking at the spren in the oven, “this is really possible. Did you read the writings of Geranid and Ashir I gave you?”

“Some of it,” Navani said. “Before the invasion. I know they’ve been able to keep the same flamespren for months at a time, without losing them to the Cognitive Realm. It requires maintenance of a fire.”

“Yes, but there’s more!” Rushu said. “Their research taught me something amazing: the flamespren will stay even longer if you give them treats.”

“What kind of treats do flamespren want?” Navani asked. “More coal?”

“Names,” Rushu said. “Names and compliments. Brightness, if you think about the spren, they mold to your thoughts.”

“I read about the molding process,” Navani said. “If you measure them, they lock to those measurements. But … compliments?”

“This one is Bippy,” Rushu said, pointing to one of the spren. “See how its head has that little tuft on top?”

Bippy looked toward them at the attention, then hopped up to the edge of the oven, staring out with too-large eyes. A bit of fire itself, responding to Rushu merely mentioning its name.

“Fascinating,” Navani said as some of the gloryspren that trailed her began to spin around the two of them.

“We can cultivate them over time,” Rushu said. “An entire … herd? Pod?”

“I’m voting for a flare,” one of the other ardents said. “A flare of flamespren.”

“An entire flare, then,” Rushu said, “of domesticated flamespren. It’s too early to tell, but Brightness, you might be right. If they can be trained … then we can teach them to go in and out of fabrials on command.”

Domesticated flamespren? the Sibling asked. Nonsense.

Is it? Navani asked, still watching Bippy. Rushu moved her finger back and forth in front of the glass, and Bippy ran to follow it. When Rushu complimented the spren on its trick, Navani could have sworn that Bippy glowed brighter. Intelligent spren seek bonds with people. Why not lesser spren?

It … it isn’t natural, the Sibling said.

Pardon, Sibling, Navani said. But neither is living in towers that are climate controlled. If we conformed only to what was natural, my people would be living naked in the wilderness and defecating on the ground.

The Sibling simmered in the back of her mind, like a burning coal themself.

You’ve said our practices are cruel, Navani said, trying to soften her tone. I’m attempting to do something about that. We keep chulls as beasts of burden; can we not do the same for spren? If being in a fabrial is uncomfortable for a spren … well, so is pulling a cart for a chull. But assuming it’s not too bad, we should be able to train them to do it willingly, with rewards. We can … cultivate them, Sibling. Isn’t this a better way? To have spren take shifts in the fabrials, with training to get in and out willingly?

She held her breath, waiting. The Sibling had been hard-nosed about this.

See my heart, Sibling, she sent. See that I’m trying.