“No.” Indeed, in saying those things, she’d made Shallan retreat into a little knot of fear. Right next to Formless.
“You can say things she can’t,” Adolin said. “And that’s why we need you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I think I do understand, a little bit.” He met her eyes. “Thank you, Veil. Sincerely. I’ll find a way to help. I promise.”
Huh. She believed him. How interesting. “I was wrong about you,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I was outvoted.”
“If she’s listening,” he said, “make sure she knows that I don’t care what she did. And tell her I know she’s strong enough to deal with this on her own, but she should know she doesn’t have to anymore. Deal with it on her own, that is.”
I wasn’t ever alone, part of her whispered. I had Pattern. Even in the dark days of our childhood, we had him. Although we don’t remember.
So Adolin was wrong, but he was also right. They didn’t have to do this alone. If only they could persuade Shallan of that fact.
We must assume that Odium has realized this, and is seeking a singular, terrible goal: the destruction—and somehow Splintering or otherwise making impotent—of all Shards other than him.
There was more than one way to protect.
Kaladin had always known this, but he hadn’t felt it. Feeling and knowing seemed to be the same to his father, but not to Kaladin. Listening to descriptions from books was never good enough for him. He had to try something to understand it.
He threw himself into this new challenge: finding a way to help Noril and the others in the sanitarium. At his father’s recommendation—then insistence—Kaladin took it slowly, confining his initial efforts to men who shared similar symptoms. Battle fatigue, nightmares, persistent melancholy, suicidal tendencies.
Lirin was correct, of course. Kaladin had complained that the ardents were treating all mental disorders the same; he couldn’t swoop in and treat each and every person in the entire sanitarium at once. First he needed to prove that he could make a difference for these few.
He still didn’t know how his father balanced work and emotion. Lirin genuinely seemed to care for his patients, but he could also turn it off. Stop thinking about the ones he couldn’t help. Such as the dozens of people trapped in the darkness of the sanitarium, locked away from the sun, moaning to themselves or—in one severe case—writing gibberish all over her room using her own feces.
Temporarily excused from seeing ordinary patients, Kaladin located six men in the sanitarium with similar symptoms. He released them and got them working to support each other. He developed a plan, and showed them how to share in ways that would help.
Today they sat in seats on the balcony outside his clinic. Warmed by mugs of tea, they talked. About their lives. The people they’d lost. The darkness.
It was helping. You didn’t need a surgeon or ardent to lead the discussion; they could do it themselves. Two of the six were mostly quiet, but even they grunted along when others talked about their problems.
“Remarkable,” Kaladin’s mother said, taking notes as she stood with Kaladin to the side. “How did you know? Previous documentation indicated that they would feed each other’s melancholy, driving one another to destructive behavior. But these are having the opposite experience.”
“The squad is stronger than the individual,” Kaladin said. “You simply need to get them pointed in the right direction. Get them to lift the bridge together…”
His mother frowned, glancing up at him.
“The ardents’ stories about inmates feeding each other’s despair,” Kaladin said. “They probably came from inmates who were situated next to one another in the sanitariums. In dark places, where their gloom could run rampant … Yes, there I could see them driving each other closer toward death. It happens sometimes to … to slaves. In a hopeless situation, it’s easy to convince one another to give up.”
His mother rested her hand on his arm, and her face looked so sad he had to turn away. He didn’t like to talk to her about his past, the years between then and now. During those years she’d lost her loving boy, Kal. That child was dead, long ago buried in crem. At least by the time he’d found her again, Kaladin had become the man he was now. Broken, but mostly reforged as a Radiant.
She didn’t need to know about those darkest months. They would bring her nothing but pain.
“Anyway,” Kaladin said, nodding toward the group of men, “I suspected after talking to Noril that this would help. It changes something to be able to speak to others about your pain. It helps to have others who actually understand.”
“I understand,” his mother said. “Your father understands.”
He was glad she thought that, wrong though she was. They were sympathetic, but they didn’t understand. Better that they didn’t.
For the men chatting together softly, the change was in being shown sunlight again. In being reminded that the darkness did pass. But perhaps most important, the change was in not merely knowing that you weren’t alone—but in feeling it. Realizing that no matter how isolated you thought you were, no matter how often your brain told you terrible things, there were others who understood.
It wouldn’t fix everything. But it was a start.
To combine powers would change and distort who Odium is. So instead of absorbing others, he destroys them. Since we are all essentially infinite, he needs no more power. Destroying and Splintering the other Shards would leave Odium as the sole god, unchanged and uncorrupted by other influences.
“I like none of these proposals,” the Stump said, with her spren interpreting for her.
She leaned forward to warm her gnarled hands—out of habit most likely, as this manifested fire gave very little heat. It could be packed up and carried in your pocket. All you had to do was grab the bead. It was more like a painting of a fire that flickered and crackled like the real thing.
Veil sat with Shallan’s sketchbook open, her back to a large chunk of obsidian, pretending to draw as Adolin held counsel with the Radiants. So far, despite doing the worst job sketching, she hadn’t been able to coax Shallan out.
“None of them?” Adolin asked. He stood tall, wearing a black uniform embroidered with silver around the cuffs. The polished buttons perfectly matched the silver of the sheathed side sword he wore on his hip.
He was striking—brilliant, even, as he stood before the fire in a sharply tailored uniform. The fire was cold somehow, though it should have been warm. And he was warm somehow, when a stiff black uniform should have made him seem cold.
Arshqqam, though coming from a very different background, was not timid about speaking her mind to him. Veil liked the old Truthwatcher. Too many people refused to look past a person’s age. To them this woman—as exemplified by her nickname—would be defined by how old she was.
Veil saw more. The way Arshqqam kept her silver hair carefully braided. The engraved ring she wore on her right hand was her only jewelry, and it bore no valuable gemstone, just some milky white quartz. She argued with Adolin—one of the most powerful men in the world—as easily as she might have argued with a water bearer. There was so much to this woman, and yet they barely knew her.
Don’t you want to draw that, Shallan? Veil thought. Don’t you want to come out and do a better job than I am?
Instead, she felt a deep resentment from Shallan. For the things Veil had said to Adolin. The pain they threatened.
The pain of a past best left forgotten.
“Brightlord,” the Stump said to Adolin through her spren, “I understand why you are concerned. Dreaming-though-Awake has read the letters Dalinar and Jasnah sent, then told me the contents. If the honorspren are truly as antagonistic as they seem, then I doubt they will listen to these written pleas. Dreaming-though-Awake says that honorspren can be quite passionate, and would likely respond better to a personal plea.
“However, the arguments you’ve offered tonight aren’t strong enough. Claiming
that unless they agree, you’re going to go to the inkspren? They know how badly we need Windrunners, and they undoubtedly know the inkspren are being even more difficult to recruit. Trying to play upon their guilty consciences to provoke them to help? I don’t think they do feel guilty. That’s the problem.”
“I agree,” Godeke said. The solemn Edgedancer clasped his hands before him, seated on an overturned rations box, his squared beard a reminder of his ardent past. “We can’t guilt them into agreeing, Brightlord. Nor can we win them over with threats. We must present our request: that we are in need, and we sincerely wish them to reconsider their lack of support.”
“Zu?” Adolin asked the final Radiant.
The golden-haired woman leaned back and shrugged. “I’m not one for politics. I’ll tell them they’re being storming stupid if they think they can ride this.”
“Your people are trying to ride it,” Godeke said.
“My people are storming stupid,” Zu said, shrugging again.
Behind them, the soldiers packed up camp. It was morning—though that didn’t mean much in Shadesmar—and they were now one day away from Lasting Integrity. It was late in the mission to still be uncertain, and Adolin’s worry was making Veil nervous. If their delegation got turned away, she’d have to find a way to sneak in and locate Restares alone.
Adolin looked down, seeming to wilt. He’d spent a good long time coming up with these plans, and Veil had helped him with some. Unfortunately, he hadn’t shown much confidence in the ideas, and the reactions of the others were further confirmation.
Radiant emerged as Veil searched for a way to bolster his confidence. Unfortunately, Radiant couldn’t think of anything useful—though she did spot someone else sitting by the campfire. “Beryl,” Radiant found herself saying. “What do you think?”
The stately woman was the only one of Shallan’s agents at the campfire meeting; the other two were preparing breakfast. She looked up sharply from where she’d been sitting behind the others.
“I … I really don’t know,” she said, glancing back at her feet and blushing as everyone turned toward her.
“You’re a knight,” Radiant said. “At least one in training. This is our mission as much as it is that of Highprince Adolin. You should have an opinion. Should we present the letters, or should we attempt something more dramatic?”
“It’s … so outside my realm of experience, Brightness. Please.”
It’s not her, Veil thought. It simply can’t be.
“I’ll work on these ideas some more,” Adolin said. “Beryl, thank you.”
“Highprince Adolin,” Arshqqam said. “There is something none of these proposals do properly that I think you should consider. How can you appeal to their honor? Are they not spren of this attribute? I suspect any success we have will relate to that.”
Adolin nodded slowly, and Radiant cocked her head. Jasnah’s proposal tried to do as the Stump said, but Shallan had sensed something off about the arguments.
Honor, Radiant thought. Yes. Jasnah thinks like a scholar, but not a soldier. There was something wrong about her lofty words and sweeping conclusions.
Honor. How to appeal to the honor of these spren?
Adolin dismissed everyone to get breakfast. He walked over to take another report from the soldier he had keeping watch over that strange band of Tukari humans, who continued keeping pace behind them.
Beryl stood up, wearing a flowing dress—not a traditional havah, but something of an older classical style that covered both her hands in voluminous sleeves. She walked up to Radiant, who still sat with her back to the rock.
Radiant quickly snapped closed the sketchbook; it wouldn’t do for someone to see how terrible Veil’s drawings were.
“Why did you ask me to come to this meeting, Brightness?” Beryl asked.
“You have to get used to playing a role in important events. I want you to gain experience with the politics of our current problem. Besides, you asked to come on this mission when Stargyle proved unavailable.”
“I wanted to see Shadesmar,” she said. “But Brightness, I’ve barely had time to get used to the idea of being a Lightweaver. I’m no politician.” She folded her arms, and suddenly looked cold as she glanced at the rest of the camp. “I don’t belong here, do I? I’m not ready.”
Radiant tapped the top of Shallan’s sketchpad with her pencil, trying to judge whether this woman was lying. But this was Veil’s area of expertise. She’d spent over a decade being a spy.
Be careful, Shallan thought. Remember that decade of experience is imagined.
True. It was hard to remember.
Yeah … Veil thought. My empty past … being nothing back then … unnerves me.
Radiant didn’t miss noting Shallan’s interjection. That was the most they’d gotten out of her in a few days.
“Beryl,” Radiant said, “I want you to practice being around important people. You don’t need to solve Adolin’s problems; you just need experience giving your opinion in a place where it’s safe for you to fail.”
“Yes, Brightness,” she said, relaxing visibly. “Thank you, Brightness.” She bowed and ducked away to go help with breakfast.
I am not the expert, Radiant thought. But I increasingly agree with Veil’s skepticism.
Shallan, lurking deep inside, started to budge. It would be painful to acknowledge that one of her friends, instead of Beryl, might actually be the spy. But it was better than insisting on believing the lie. No matter how expert they were at that particular trick.
Adolin walked over. Radiant tucked her sketchbook under her arm as she stood up, noting the frown on Adolin’s lips.
“The Tukari are still back there?” she guessed.
He nodded. “They turn away any messenger I send, but they’re obviously following us.”
“We could outrun them,” Radiant said. “It would involve putting the Stump and Maya on horseback, then pushing hard to reach the stronghold.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I kind of need another day to come up with something.…” He handed her a small bar of crushed lavis held together with sugar.
A ration bar? She took it with a frown.
“I thought we’d take a walk,” he said. “While the others eat breakfast. It feels strange to say this, but I feel like we haven’t had any time together since the boat ride.”
Radiant nodded. Fine with her, though she gave way to Veil—who enjoyed conversation more. She tucked her sketchbook into her satchel and slung it over her arm. She wore her rugged travel clothing, with the darker coat and a nice solid pair of boots. Ones that fit her far better than the pair Shallan had stolen from Kaladin.
Adolin waved to his men, then pointed. They waved back, and he started out of camp with Veil following. They didn’t get far before a glowing figure approached, riding on something incredible.
Veil had grown accustomed to the wonders of this place. The way gloryspren would sail overhead in formations, or the way that their evening conversation last night had drawn a large joyspren—which manifested here as a spinning cyclone of color.
Every now and then though, something came along that shocked away even Veil’s deliberate cynicism. Notum’s grand white steed was almost a horse, though it was more graceful and supple, with long legs and a neck that bent in a way no physical spine could manage. It had large eyes but seemingly no mouth, and its hair waved in a phantom wind, like long glowing ribbons. Shallan thought she had never in her life seen something so graceful. She didn’t deserve to see something so divine. As if merely by gazing at it, she sullied it with the cares of a world that it should never touch.
Notum pulled up, controlling the grand spren with a simple bridle of twisted threads. “Human prince,” he said to Adolin, “it is here where I must turn another way. I am forbidden to approach Lasting Integrity. I’ll patrol along to the south, instead of continuing west.”
They’d invited the honorspren to join them, since his patrol had been going along the c
oast nearby. He’d refused every invitation.
“I wish you the best then, Notum,” Adolin said. “It was good to see you again. Thanks for your advice.”
“I would prefer you take that advice. I assume you have not reconsidered your imprudent quest?”
“I’ve reconsidered plenty,” Adolin said. “I’m still going to try it though.”
“As you wish,” Notum said, then saluted. “If I don’t see you after you’re turned away, give my best to the Ancient Daughter. It is … well that she is not trapped in the stronghold. It would not suit her.”
The honorspren turned to go.
“Notum,” Adolin called. “That spren you ride. It’s strikingly similar to a horse.”
“Is that odd?” he asked.
“Most spren appear nothing like creatures from our world.”
Notum smiled, a rare expression on the spren’s face, then gestured to himself. “Do we not?”
“The humanoid ones, yes,” Adolin said. “I’ve never seen one in the shape of a horse.”
“Not all spren were imagined by men, Adolin Kholin,” Notum called to him. “Farewell.”
As he turned and rode his graceful animal away, Shallan nearly emerged to sketch the thing.
“Storms,” Adolin said. “He’s so cold, and he’s one of the spren who seem to like us. I’m not feeling good about this entire mission.”
“Maybe I can sneak in,” Veil said. “If they do turn us away.”
“What would that accomplish?” Adolin asked.
“I could see if all the honorspren feel the same way, perhaps. Or if there are a few tyrants in charge who refuse to listen to reason.”
“That doesn’t feel like the way spren work, Veil. I have a terrible feeling this is going to go all wrong. And I’ll have come all this way, only to need to slink back to Father and tell him I failed. Again.”
“Through no fault of your own, Adolin.”
“Father talks about the importance of the journey, Veil, but he’s always been equally focused on results. He’s always able to get them himself, so it baffles him why everyone else always seems so incompetent.”
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