Adolin raised his hands, suddenly hesitant to touch the animal.
A youth on an unfamiliar field.
Sureblood wasn’t moving.
More nervous that day than during the duel that won his Blade.
Shouts. Another crack in the air, sharp, immediate.
They pick their rider, son. We fixate on Shards, but any man—courageous or coward—can bond a Blade. Not so here, on this ground. Only the worthy win here . . .
Move.
Grieve later.
Move!
Adolin roared, leaping to his feet and charging past the two bridgemen who nervously stood guard over him with spears. He started the process of summoning his Blade and ran toward the fighting up ahead. Only moments had passed, but already the Alethi lines were collapsing. Some infantry advanced in clusters while others had hunkered down, stunned and confused.
Another flash, accompanied by a cracking of the air. Lightning. Red lightning. It appeared in flashes from groups of Parshendi, then was gone in the blink of an eye. It left a bright afterimage—glowing, forked—that briefly obscured Adolin’s sight.
Ahead of him, men dropped, fried in their armor. Adolin shouted as he charged, bellowing for the men to hold their lines.
More cracks sounded, but the strikes didn’t seem well aimed. They’d sometimes flash backward or would follow strange paths, rarely going straight toward the Alethi. As he ran, he saw a blast come from a pair of Parshendi, but it arced immediately down into the ground.
The Parshendi stared downward, befuddled. It was as if the lightning worked . . . well, like lightning from the sky, not following any sort of predictable path.
“Charge them, you cremlings!” Adolin shouted, running through the middle of the soldiers. “Back into your lines! It’s just like advancing on archers! Keep your heads. Tighten up. If we break, we’re dead!”
He wasn’t certain how much of that they heard, but the image of him yelling, crashing into the line of Parshendi, did something. Shouts rose from officers, lines re-formed.
Lightning flashed right at Adolin.
The sound was incredible, and the light. He stood in place, blinded. When it faded, he found himself completely unharmed. He looked down at the armor, which was vibrating softly—a hum that rattled his skin in a strangely comforting way. Nearby, another crack of lightning left a small group of Parshendi, but it didn’t blind him. His helm—which as always was partially translucent from the inside—darkened in a jagged streak, perfectly overlaying the lightning.
Adolin grinned with clenched teeth, feeling a savage satisfaction as he pushed into the Parshendi and swung his Shardblade through their necks. By the old stories, the suit he wore had been created to fight these very monsters.
Though these Parshendi soldiers were sleeker and more ferocious-looking than the ones he’d previously fought, their eyes burned just as easily. Then they dropped dead and something wiggled out of their chests—small red spren, like tiny lightning, that zipped into the air and vanished.
“They can be killed!” one of the soldiers yelled nearby. “They can die!”
Others raised the call, passing it down the lines. Obvious though the revelation seemed, it bolstered his troops, and they surged forward.
They can die.
* * *
Shallan drew. Frantic.
A map in ink. Each line precise. The large sheet, crafted at her order, covered a wide board on the floor. It was the largest drawing she’d ever done; she’d filled it in, section by section, as they traveled.
She listened with half an ear to the other scholars in the tent. They were a distraction, but an important one.
Another line, rippled on the sides, forming a thin plateau. It was a copy of the one she’d drawn in seven other places on the map. The Plains were a fourfold radial pattern mirrored down the center of each quadrant, and so anything she drew in one quadrant she could repeat in the others, mirrored as appropriate. The eastern side was worn down, yes, so her map wouldn’t be accurate in that area—but for cohesion, she needed to finish those parts. So she could see the whole pattern.
“Scout reporting in,” a messenger woman said, bursting into the tent, letting in a gust of the wet wind. This unexpected wind . . . it almost felt like the wind before a highstorm.
“What is the report?” Inadara asked. The severe woman was supposed to be a great scholar. She reminded Shallan of her father’s ardents. In the corner of the room, Prince Renarin stood in his Shardplate, arms folded. He had orders to protect them all, should the Parshendi try to break onto the command plateau.
“The large center plateau is just as the parshman told us,” the scout said, breathless. “It’s only one plateau over, to the east.” Lyn was a solid-looking woman with long black hair and keen eyes. “It’s obviously inhabited, though there doesn’t seem to be anyone there right now.”
“And the plateaus surrounding it?” Inadara asked.
“Shim and Felt are scouting those,” Lyn said. “Felt should be back soon. I can do a rough drawing of what I saw of the center plateau for you.”
“Do it,” Inadara said. “We need to find that Oathgate.”
Shallan wiped a stray drop of water—fallen from Lyn’s coat—off her map, then continued drawing. The army’s path from the warcamps inward had allowed her to extrapolate and draw eight chains of plateaus, two each—mirrored—starting from the four “sides” of the Plains and working inward.
She had almost completed the last of the eight arms reaching toward the center. This close, earlier scout reports—and what Shallan had seen herself—allowed her to fill in everything around the center. Rlain’s explanations had helped, but he hadn’t been able to draw out the center plateaus for her. He’d never paid attention to their shapes, and Shallan needed precision.
Fortunately, earlier reports had almost been enough. She didn’t need much more. She was almost done.
“What do you think?” Lyn asked.
“Show it to Brightness Shallan.” Inadara sounded displeased, which seemed her normal state.
Shallan glanced over Lyn’s hastily sketched map, then nodded, turning back to her drawing. It would be better if she could see the center plateau herself, but the corner this woman had drawn gave Shallan an idea.
“Not going to say anything?” Inadara asked.
“Not done yet,” Shallan said, dipping her pen in the ink.
“We have been given an order by the highprince himself to find the Oathgate.”
“I will.”
Something crashed outside, like distant lightning.
“Mmm . . .” Pattern said. “Bad. Very bad.”
Inadara looked at Pattern, who dimpled the floor near Shallan. “I do not like this thing. Spren should not speak. It may be of them, a Voidbringer.”
“I am not a Voidspren,” Pattern said.
“Brightness Shallan—”
“He’s not a Voidspren,” Shallan said absently.
“We should study it,” Inadara said. “How long did you say it has been following you?”
A heavy footstep sounded on the floor, Renarin stepping forward. Shallan would have preferred to keep Pattern secret, but when the winds had started picking up, he’d started buzzing loudly. There was no avoiding it now that he’d drawn the scholars’ attention. Renarin leaned down. He seemed fascinated by Pattern.
He wasn’t the only one. “It is likely involved,” Inadara said. “You should not dismiss one of my theories so quickly. I still think it might be related to the Voidbringers.”
“Know you nothing of Patterns, old human?” Pattern said, huffing. When had he picked up how to huff? “Voidbringers have no pattern. Besides, I have read of them in your lore. They speak of spindly arms like bone, and horrific faces. I should think, if you wish to find one, the mirror might be a location where you can begin your search.”
Inadara recoiled. Then she stomped away, moving to chat with Brightness Velat and the ardent Isasik about their interpretation
of Shallan’s map.
Shallan smiled as she drew. “That was clever.”
“I am trying to learn,” Pattern replied. “Insults in particular will be of great use to my people, as they are truths and lies combined in a quite interesting manner.”
The pops continued outside. “What is that?” she asked softly, finishing another plateau.
“Stormspren,” Pattern said. “They are a variety of Voidspren. It is not good. I feel something very dangerous brewing. Draw more quickly.”
“The Oathgate must be in that center plateau somewhere,” Inadara said to her group of scholars.
“We will never search the entire thing in time,” said one of the ardents, a man who seemed to be constantly removing his spectacles and wiping them down. He put them back on. “That plateau is by far the largest we’ve found on the Plains.”
It was a problem. How to find the Oathgate? It could be anywhere. No, Shallan thought, drawing with precise motions, the old maps placed what Jasnah thought was the Oathgate southwest of the city center. Unfortunately, she still didn’t have a scale for reference. The city was too ancient, and all the maps were copies of copies of copies or re-creations from descriptions. She was certain by now that Stormseat hadn’t made up the entire Shattered Plains—the city hadn’t been nearly so huge. Structures like the warcamps had been outbuildings, or satellite cities.
But that was just a guess. She needed something concrete. Some sign.
The tent flaps opened again. It had grown cold outside. Was the rain harder than it had been?
“Damnation!” the newcomer swore, a thin man in a scout’s uniform. “Have you seen what is happening out there? Why are we split across the plateaus? Wasn’t the plan to fight a defensive battle?”
“Your report?” Inadara asked.
“Get me a towel and some paper,” the scout said. “I rounded the southern side of the central plateau. I’ll draw what I saw . . . but Damnation! They’re throwing lightning, Brightness. Throwing it! It’s insane. How do we fight such things?”
Shallan finished the last plateau on her drawing. She settled back on her heels, lowering her pen. The Shattered Plains, drawn almost in their entirety. But what was she doing? What was the point?
“We will make an expedition into the central plateau,” Inadara said. “Brightlord Renarin, we will need your protection. Perhaps in the Parshendi city we will find the elderly or the workers, and we can protect them, as Brightlord Dalinar has instructed. They might know about the Oathgate. If not, we can begin breaking into buildings and searching for clues.”
Too slow, Shallan thought.
The newly arrived scout stepped up to Shallan’s large map. He leaned over, inspecting it as he dried himself off with a towel. Shallan gave him a glare. If he dripped water on this after all she’d done . . .
“That’s wrong,” he said.
Wrong? Her art? Of course it wasn’t wrong. “Where?” she asked, exhausted.
“That plateau there,” the man said, pointing. “It’s not long and thin, as you drew it. It’s a perfect circle, with big gaps between it and the plateaus on its east and west.”
“That’s unlikely,” Shallan said. “If it were that way—” She blinked.
If it were that way, it wouldn’t match the pattern.
* * *
“Well then, find Brightness Shallan a squad of soldiers and do as she says!” Dalinar said, turning and raising his arm against the wind.
Renarin nodded. Blessedly, he’d agreed to put on his Plate for the battle, rather than continuing on with Bridge Four. Dalinar barely understood the lad these days. . . . Storms. Dalinar had never known a man who could look awkward in Shardplate, but his son managed it. The sheet of wind-driven rain passed. Light from blue lanterns reflected from Renarin’s wet armor.
“Go,” Dalinar said. “Protect the scholars on their mission.”
“I . . .” Renarin said. “Father, I don’t know . . .”
“It wasn’t a request, Renarin!” Dalinar shouted. “Do as you’re told, or give that storming Plate to someone who will!”
The boy stumbled back, then saluted with a metallic slap. Dalinar pointed at Gaval, who barked orders, gathering a squad of soldiers. Renarin followed Gaval as the two of them moved off.
Stormfather. The sky had grown darker and darker. They’d need Navani’s fabrials soon. That wind came in bursts, blowing rain that was entirely too strong for the Weeping. “We have to interrupt that singing!” Dalinar shouted against the rain, making his way to the edge of the plateau, joined by officers and messengers, including Rlain and several members of Bridge Four. “Parshman. Is this storm their doing?”
“I believe so, Brightlord Dalinar!”
On the other side of the chasm, Aladar’s army fought a desperate battle against the Parshendi. Red lightning came in bursts, but according to field reports, the Parshendi didn’t know how to control it. It could be very dangerous to those who stood close by, but was not the terrible weapon it had first seemed.
In direct combat, unfortunately, these new Parshendi were another thing entirely. A group of them prowled close to the chasm, where they ripped through a squad of spearmen like a whitespine through a patch of ferns. They fought with a ferocity beyond what the Parshendi had ever shown on the plateau runs, and their weapons connected with flashes of red.
It was difficult to watch, but Dalinar’s place was not out there fighting. Not today.
“Aladar’s eastern flank needs reinforcement,” Dalinar said. “What do we have?”
“Light infantry reserves,” General Khal said, wearing only his uniform. His son wore his Shards, fighting with Roion’s army. “Fifteenth spear division from Sebarial’s army. But those were supposed to support Brightlord Adolin. . . .”
“He’ll survive without them. Get those men over here and see Aladar reinforced. Tell him to punch through to those Parshendi in the back, engage the ones singing at all costs. What’s Navani’s status?”
“She is ready with the devices, Brightlord,” a messenger said. “She wants to know where she should begin.”
“Roion’s flank,” Dalinar said immediately. He sensed a disaster brewing there. Speeches were all well and good, but even with Khal’s son fighting on that front, Roion’s troops were the worst he had. Teleb was supporting them with some of Sebarial’s troops, who were surprisingly good. The man himself was practically useless in a battle, but he knew how to hire the right people—and that had always been his genius. Sebarial probably assumed that Dalinar didn’t know that.
He’d kept many of Sebarial’s troops as a reserve up until now. With them on the field, they’d committed almost every soldier they had.
Dalinar hiked back toward the command tent, passing Shallan, Inadara, some bridgemen, and a squad of soldiers—Renarin included—crossing the plateau at a trot, heading out on their mission. They’d have to skirt across the southern plateau, near the fighting, to get where they were going. Kelek speed their way.
Dalinar himself pushed through the rain, soaked to the very bones, reading the battle through what he could see of the flanks. His force had the size advantage, as anticipated. But now, this red lightning, this wind . . . The Parshendi moved through the darkness and the gusts of wind with ease while the humans slipped, squinted, and were battered.
Still, the Alethi were holding their own. The problem was that this was only half of the Parshendi. If the other half attacked, his people would be in serious trouble—but they didn’t attack, so they must consider that singing to be important. They saw the wind they were creating as more damaging, more deadly to the humans, than simply joining the battle.
That terrified him. What was coming would be worse.
“I am sorry that you have to die this way.”
Dalinar stood still. Rain streamed down. He looked to the flock of messengers, aides, bodyguards, and officers who attended him. “Who spoke?”
They looked at one another.
Wait . . . He rec
ognized that voice, didn’t he? It was familiar to him.
Yes. He’d heard it many times. In his visions.
It was the voice of the Almighty.
There is one you will watch. Though all of them have some relevance to precognition, Moelach is one of the most powerful in this regard. His touch seeps into a soul as it breaks apart from the body, creating manifestations powered by the spark of death itself. But no, this is a distraction. Deviation. Kingship. We must discuss the nature of kingship.
—From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Desk Drawer: paragraph 15
Kaladin limped up the switchbacks to the palace, his leg a knotted mass of pain. Almost falling as he reached the doors, he slumped against them, gasping, his crutch under one arm, spear in the other hand. As if he could do anything with that.
Have . . . to get . . . to the king. . . .
How would he get Elhokar away? Moash would be watching. Storms. The assassination could happen any day . . . any hour now. Surely Dalinar was already far enough from the warcamps.
Keep. Moving.
Kaladin stumbled into the entryway. No guards at the doors. Bad sign. Should he have raised the alarm? There weren’t any soldiers in camp to help, and if he’d come in force, Graves and his men would know something was wrong. Alone, Kaladin might be able to see the king. His best hope was to get Elhokar to safety quietly.
Fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You change your mind now? After all of this? What are you doing?
But storm it . . . the king tried. He actually tried. The man was arrogant, perhaps incapable, but he tried. He was sincere.
Kaladin stopped, exhausted, leg screaming, and leaned against the wall. Shouldn’t this be easier? Now that he’d made the decision, shouldn’t he be focused, confident, energized? He felt none of that. He felt wrung out, confused, and uncertain.
He pushed himself forward. Keep going. Almighty send that he wasn’t too late.
Was he back to praying now?
He picked through darkened corridors. Shouldn’t there be more light? With some difficulty, he reached the king’s upper rooms, with the conference chamber and its balcony to the side. Two men in Bridge Four uniforms guarded the door, but Kaladin didn’t recognize either of them. They weren’t Bridge Four—they weren’t even members of the old King’s Guard. Storms.
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