The Lopen made a fist with his hand, clutching the sphere inside. In the next room over, his mother scolded a king.
“No, no, Your Majesty,” she said, words thickly accented, using the same stern tone she used with the axehounds. “You roll the whole thing up and eat it. You can’t pick it apart like that.”
“I don’t feel so hungry, nanha,” Elhokar said. His voice was weak, but he’d awoken from his drunken stupor, which was a good sign.
“You’ll eat anyway!” Mother said. “I know what to do when I see a man that pale in the face, and pardon, Your Majesty, but you are pale as a sheet hung out for the sun to bleach! And that’s the truth of it. You’re going to eat. No complaints.”
“I’m the king. I don’t take orders from—”
“You’re in my home now!” she said, and Lopen mouthed along with the words. “In a Herdazian woman’s home, nobody’s station means nothing beside her own. I’m not going to have them come and get you and find you not properly fed! I’ll not have people saying that, Your Brightship, no I won’t! Eat up. I’ve got soup cooking.”
The Lopen smiled, and though he heard the king grumble, he also heard the sound of spoon against plate. Two of Lopen’s strongest cousins sat out front of the hovel in Little Herdaz—which was technically in Highprince Sebarial’s warcamp, though the Herdazians didn’t pay much attention to that. Four more cousins sat at the end of the street, idly sewing some boots, watching for anything suspicious.
“All right,” Lopen whispered, “you really need to work this time.” He focused on that sphere in his hand. Just like he did every day, and had done every day since Captain Kaladin had started glowing. He’d figure it out sooner or later. He was as sure of it as he was sure of his name.
“Lopen.” A wide face ducked in one of the windows, distracting him. Chilinko, his uncle. “Get the king man dressed up like a Herdazian again. We might need to move.”
“Move?” Lopen said, standing.
“Word has come in to all the warcamps from Highprince Sebarial,” Chilinko said in Herdazian. “They found something out there, on the Plains. Be ready. Just in case. Everyone’s talking. I can’t make sense of it.” He shook his head. “First that highstorm nobody knew about, then the rains stop early, then the storming king man of Alethkar on my doorstep. Now this. I think we might be abandoning camp, even though nightfall’s around the corner. Makes no sense to me, but get the king man taken care of.”
The Lopen nodded. “I’ll get to it. Just a sec.”
Chilinko ducked away. Lopen opened his palm and stared at the sphere. He didn’t want to miss a day practicing with his sphere, just in case. After all, sooner or later, he was going to look at one of these and—
The Lopen sucked in Light.
It happened in an eyeblink, and then there he sat, Stormlight streaming from his skin.
“Ha!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “Ha! Hey, Chilinko, come back here. I need to stick you to the wall!”
The Light winked out. The Lopen stopped, frowning, and held his hand up in front of him. Gone so fast? What had happened? He hesitated. That tingling . . .
He felt at his shoulder, the one where he’d lost his arm so long ago. There, his fingers prodded a new nub of flesh that had begun sprouting from his scar.
“Oh, storms yes! Everybody, give the Lopen your spheres! I have glowing that needs to be done.”
* * *
Moash sat on the back of the cart as it rattled and wound its way out of the warcamps. He could have ridden in front, but he didn’t want to be far from his armor, which they’d wrapped up in packages and stacked back here. Hidden. The Blade and Plate might be his in name, but he had no illusions as to what would happen if the Alethi elite noticed him trying to flee with it.
His wagon crested the rise just outside of the warcamps. Behind them, enormous lines of people snaked out onto the Shattered Plains. Highprince Dalinar’s orders had been clear, though baffling. The warcamps were being abandoned. All parshmen were to be left behind, and everyone was to make their way toward the center of the Shattered Plains.
Some of the highprinces obeyed. Others did not. Curiously, Sadeas was one of those who obeyed, his warcamp emptying almost as quickly as those of Sebarial, Roion, and Aladar. It seemed like everyone was going, even the children.
Moash’s cart rolled to a stop. Graves stepped up beside the back a few moments later. “We needn’t have worried about hiding,” he mumbled, looking over the exodus. “They’re too busy to pay attention to us. Look there.”
Some groups of merchants gathered outside of Dalinar’s warcamps. They pretended to be packing to leave, but weren’t making any obvious progress.
“Scavengers,” Graves said. “They’ll head into the abandoned warcamps to loot. Storming fools. They deserve what is coming.”
“What is coming?” Moash said. He felt as if he had been tossed into a roiling river, one that had burst its banks following a highstorm. He swam with the current, but could barely keep his head above water.
He’d tried to kill Kaladin. Kaladin. It had all fallen apart. The king survived, Kaladin’s powers were back, and Moash . . . Moash was a traitor. Twice over.
“Everstorm,” Graves said. He didn’t look nearly so refined, now that he wore the patchwork overalls and shirt of a poor darkeyes. He’d used some strange eyedrops to change his eyes dark, then had instructed Moash to do the same.
“And that is?”
“The Diagram is vague,” Graves said. “We only knew the term because of old Gavilar’s visions. The Diagram says this will probably return the Voidbringers, though. Those have turned out to be the parshmen, it seems.” He shook his head. “Damnation. That woman was right.”
“Woman?”
“Jasnah Kholin.”
Moash shook his head. He didn’t understand any of what was happening. Graves’s sentences felt like strings of words that shouldn’t go together. Parshmen, Voidbringers? Jasnah Kholin? That was the king’s sister. Hadn’t she died at sea? What did Graves know of her?
“Who are you really?” Moash asked.
“A patriot,” Graves said. “Just like I told you. We’re allowed to pursue our own interests and goals until we’re called up.” He shook his head. “I thought for sure my interpretation was correct, that if we removed Elhokar, Dalinar would become our ally in what is to come. . . . Well, it appears I was wrong. Either that, or I was too slow.”
Moash felt sick.
Graves gripped him on the arm. “Head up, Moash. Bringing a Shardbearer back with me will mean that my mission wasn’t a complete loss. Besides, you can tell us about this new Radiant. I’ll introduce you to the Diagram. We have an important work.”
“Which is?”
“The salvation of the entire world, my friend.” Graves patted him, then walked toward the front of the cart, where the others rode.
The salvation of the entire world.
I’ve been played for one of the ten fools, Moash thought, chin to his chest. And I don’t even know how.
The wagon started rolling again.
1173090605 1173090801 1173090901 1173091001
1173091004 1173100105 1173100205 1173100401
1173100603 1173100804
—From the Diagram, North Wall Coda, Windowsill region: paragraph 2 (This appears to be a sequence of dates, but their relevance is as yet unknown.)
They soon began to move into the tower.
There was nothing else they could do, though Adolin’s explorations were far from finished. Night was approaching, and the temperature was dropping outside. Beyond that, the highstorm that had hit the Shattered Plains would be raging across the land currently, and would eventually hit these mountains. It took over a day for one to cross the entire continent, and they were probably somewhere near the center, so it would be growing close.
An unscheduled highstorm, Shallan thought, walking through the dark hallways with her guards. And something else coming from the other direction.
She could tell that this tower—its contents, every hallway—was a majestic wonder. It spoke worlds about how tired she was that she didn’t want to draw any of it. She just wanted to sleep.
Their spherelight revealed something odd on the wall ahead. Shallan frowned, shaking off her fatigue and stepping up to it. A small folded piece of paper, like a card. She glanced back at her guards, who looked equally confused.
She pulled the card off the wall; it had been stuck in place with some weevilwax on the back. Inside was the triangle symbol of the Ghostbloods. Beneath it, Shallan’s name. Not Veil’s name.
Shallan’s.
Panic. Alertness. In a moment, she had sucked in the Light of their lantern, plunging the corridor into darkness. Light shone from a doorway nearby, however.
She stared at it. Gaz moved to investigate, but Shallan stopped him with a gesture.
Run or fight?
Run where? she thought. Hesitant, she stepped up to the doorway, again motioning her guards back.
Mraize stood inside, gazing out a large, glassless window that overlooked another section of the innards of this tower. He turned toward her, twisted and scarred, yet somehow refined in his gentleman’s clothing.
So. She had been found out.
I am no longer a child who hides in her room when the shouting comes, she thought firmly to herself, walking into the room. If I run from this man, he will see me as something to be hunted.
She stepped right up to him, ready to summon Pattern. He wasn’t like other Shardblades; she acknowledged that now. He could come more quickly than the ten requisite heartbeats.
He’d done that before. She hadn’t been willing to admit that he was capable of it. Admitting that would have meant too much.
How many more of my lies, she thought, hold me back from things I could accomplish?
But she needed those lies. Needed them.
“You led me on a grand hunt, Veil,” Mraize said. “If your abilities had not been manifest during the course of saving the army, I perhaps never would have located your false identity.”
“Veil is the false identity, Mraize,” Shallan said. “I am me.”
He inspected her. “I think not.”
She met that gaze, but shivered inside.
“A curious position you are in,” Mraize said. “Will you hide the true nature of your powers? I was able to guess what they are, but others will not be so knowledgeable. They might see only the Blade, and not ask what else you can do.”
“I don’t see how it’s a concern of yours.”
“You are one of us,” Mraize said. “We look after our own.”
Shallan frowned. “But you’ve seen through the lie.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to be one of the Ghostbloods?” His tone was not threatening, but those eyes . . . storms, those eyes could have drilled through stone. “We do not offer the invitation to just anyone.”
“You killed Jasnah,” Shallan hissed.
“Yes. After she, in turn, had assassinated a number of our members. You didn’t think her hands were clean of blood, did you, Veil?”
She looked away, breaking his gaze.
“I should have guessed that you would turn out to be Shallan Davar,” Mraize continued. “I feel a fool for not seeing it earlier. Your family has a long history of involvement in these events.”
“I will not help you,” Shallan said.
“Curious. You should know that I have your brothers.”
She looked to him sharply.
“Your house is no more,” Mraize said. “Your family’s grounds seized by a passing army. I rescued your brothers from the chaos of the succession war, and am bringing them here. Your family, however, does owe me a debt. One Soulcaster. Broken.”
He met her eyes. “How convenient that you, by my estimations, are one, little knife.”
She summoned Pattern. “I will kill you before I let you use them as blackmail—”
“No blackmail,” Mraize said. “They will arrive safe. A gift to you. You may wait upon my words and see. I mention your debt only so that it has a chance to find . . . purchase in your mind.”
She frowned, holding her Shardblade, wavering. “Why?” she finally asked.
“Because, you are ignorant.” Mraize stepped closer to her, towering over her. “You don’t know who we are. You don’t know what we’re trying to accomplish. You don’t know much of anything at all, Veil. Why did your father join us? Why did your brother seek out the Skybreakers? I have done some research, you see. I have answers for you.” Surprisingly, he turned from her and walked toward the doorway. “I will give you time to consider. You seem to think that your newfound place among the Radiants makes you unfit for our numbers, but I see it differently, as does my babsk. Let Shallan Davar be a Radiant, conformist and noble. Let Veil come to us.” He stopped by the doorway. “And let her find truth.”
He disappeared into the hallway. Shallan found herself feeling even more drained than before. She dismissed Pattern and leaned back against the wall. Of course Mraize would have found his way here—he’d likely been among the armies, somewhere. Getting to Urithiru had been one of the Ghostbloods’ primary goals. Despite her determination not to help them, she’d transported them—along with the army—right where they wanted to go.
Her brothers? Would they actually be safe? What of her family servants, her brother’s betrothed?
She sighed, walking to the doorway and collecting her guards. Let her find truth. What if she didn’t want to find the truth? Pattern hummed softly.
After walking through the tower’s ground floor—using her own glow for light—she found Adolin in the hallway beside a room, where he’d said he’d be. He had his wrist wrapped, and the bruises on his face were starting to purple. They made him look slightly less intoxicatingly handsome, though there was a rugged “I punched a lot of people today” quality to that, which was fetching in its own right.
“You look exhausted,” he said, giving her a peck of a kiss.
“And you look like you let someone play sticks with your face,” she said, but smiled at him. “You should get some sleep too.”
“I will,” he said. “Soon.” He touched her face. “You’re amazing, you realize. You saved everything. Everyone.”
“No need to treat me like I’m glass, Adolin.”
“You’re a Radiant,” he said. “I mean . . .” He ran his hand through his persistently messy hair. “Shallan. You’re something greater than even a lighteyes.”
“Was that a wisecrack about my girth?”
“What? No. I mean . . .” He blushed.
“I will not let this be awkward, Adolin.”
“But—”
She grabbed him in an embrace and forced him into a kiss, a deep and passionate one. He tried to mumble something, but she kept on kissing, pressing her lips against his, letting him feel her desire. He melted into the kiss, then grabbed her by the torso and pulled her close.
After a moment, he pulled back. “Storms, that smarts!”
“Oh!” Shallan raised a hand to her mouth, remembering the bruises on his face. “Sorry.”
He grinned, then winced again, as apparently that hurt too. “Worth it. Anyway, I’ll promise to avoid being awkward if you avoid being too irresistible. At least until I’m healed up. Deal?”
“Deal.”
He looked to her guards. “Nobody disturbs the Lady Radiant, understand?”
They nodded.
“Sleep well,” he said, pushing open a door into the room. Many of the rooms still had wooden doors, despite their long abandonment. “Hopefully, the room is suitable. Your spren chose it.”
Her spren? Shallan frowned, then stepped into the room. Adolin closed the door.
Shallan studied the windowless stone chamber. Why had Pattern chosen this particular place for her? The room didn’t seem distinctive. Adolin had left a Stormlight lantern for her that was extravagant, considering how few lit gemstones they had—and it showed a small square chamber with a stone bench in the corner. There were a few blankets on it. Where had Adolin found blankets?
She frowned at the wall. The rock here was faded in a square, as if someone had once hung a picture there. Actually, that looked oddly familiar. Not that she’d been here before, but the place that square hung on the wall . . .
It was exactly in the same place where the picture had hung on her father’s wall back in Jah Keved.
Her mind started to fuzz.
“Mmm . . .” Pattern said from the floor beside her. “It is time.”
“No.”
“It is time,” he repeated. “The Ghostbloods circle you. The people need a Radiant.”
“They have one. The bridgeboy.”
“Not enough. They need you.”
Shallan blinked out tears. Against her will, the room started to change. White carpet appeared. A picture on the wall. Furniture. Walls painted light blue.
Two corpses.