Father could have slept on the ground, a part of him thought. Dalinar is a true soldier.
Adolin thought again of the jolt he’d felt when ramming his dagger through Sadeas’s eye and into his brain. Satisfaction and shame. Strip away Adolin’s nobility, and what was left? A duelist when a world needed generals? A hothead who couldn’t even take an insult?
A murderer?
He threw off his coat and sat up, then jumped and gasped as he found the woman with the scratched-out eyes looming over him. “Ishar’s soul!” Adolin cursed. “Do you have to stay so close?”
She didn’t move. Adolin sighed, then changed the dressing on his shallow shoulder cut, using bandages from his pocket. Nearby, Shallan and Azure catalogued their meager supplies. Kaladin trudged over to join them. Had the bridgeboy slept?
Adolin stretched, then—accompanied by his ghostly spren—walked down the short slope to the ocean of glass beads. A few lifespren floated nearby; on this side, their glowing green motes had tufts of white hair that rippled as they danced and bobbed. Perhaps they were circling plants by the riverbank in the Physical Realm? Those small dots of light swimming above the rock might be the souls of fish. How did that work? In the real world, they’d be in the water, so shouldn’t they be inside the stone?
He knew so little, and felt so overwhelmed. So insignificant.
A fearspren crawled up out of the ocean of beads, purple antenna pointing at him. It scuttled closer until Adolin picked up some beads and threw one at the spren, which scuttled back into the ocean and lurked there, watching him.
“What do you think of all this?” Adolin asked the woman with the scratched-out eyes. She didn’t respond, but he often talked to his sword without it responding.
He tossed up one of the beads and caught it. Shallan could tell what each represented, but all he got was a dull impression of … something red?
“I’m being childish, aren’t I?” Adolin asked. “So, forces moving in the world now make me look insignificant. That’s no different from a child growing up and realizing his little life isn’t the center of the universe. Right?”
Problem was, his little life had been the center of the universe, growing up. Welcome to being the son of Dalinar storming Blackthorn. He hurled the sphere into the sea, where it skittered against its fellows.
Adolin sighed, then started a morning kata. Without a sword, he fell back on the first kata he’d ever learned—an extended sequence of stretches, hand-to-hand moves, and stances to help loosen his muscles.
The forms calmed him. The world was turning on its head, but familiar things were still familiar. Strange, that he should have to come to that revelation.
About halfway through, he noticed Azure standing on the bank. She walked down the slope and fell into line beside him, doing the same kata. She must have known it already, for she kept pace with him exactly.
They stepped back and forth along the rocks, sparring with their own shadows, until Kaladin approached and joined them. He wasn’t as practiced, and cursed under his breath as he got a sequence wrong—but he’d obviously done it before too.
He must have learned it from Zahel, Adolin realized.
The three moved together, their breathing controlled, scraping boots on the glass. The sea of beads rolling against itself began to sound soothing. Even rhythmic.
The world is the same as it’s always been, Adolin thought. These things we’re finding—monsters and Radiants—aren’t new. They were only hidden. The world has always been like this, even if I didn’t know it.
And Adolin … he was still himself. He had all the same things to be proud of, didn’t he? Same strengths? Same accomplishments?
Same flaws too.
“Are you three dancing?” a voice suddenly piped up.
Adolin immediately spun around. Shallan had settled on the slope above them, still wearing her white uniform, hat, and single glove. He found himself grinning stupidly. “It’s a warm-up kata,” he explained. “You—”
“I know what it is. You tried to teach it to me, remember? I just thought it odd to see you all down here like that.” She shook her head. “Weren’t we going to plan how to get out of here?”
Together, they started up the slope, and Azure fell into step beside Adolin. “Where did you learn that kata?”
“From my swordmaster. You?”
“Likewise.”
As they approached their camp in the small nestlike depression in the obsidian ground, something felt off to Adolin. Where was his sword, the woman with the scratched-out eyes?
He stepped back and spotted her standing on the coast, looking at her feet.
“All right,” Shallan said, drawing him back. “I made a list of our supplies.” She gestured with a pencil toward the items—which were arrayed on the ground—as she spoke. “One bag of gemstones from the emerald reserve. I used roughly half of our Stormlight in our transfer to Shadesmar and crossing the sea of beads. We have my satchel, with charcoal, reed pens, brushes, ink, lacquer, some solvents, three sketchpads, my sharpening knife, and one jar of jam I’d stowed inside for an emergency snack.”
“Wonderful,” Kaladin said. “I’m sure a pile of brushes will be useful in fighting off Voidspren.”
“Better than your tongue, which is notably dull lately. Adolin has his side knife, but our only real weapon is Azure’s Shardblade. Kaladin brought the bag of gemstones inside his pack, which fortunately also contained his travel rations: three meals of flatbread and jerked pork. We also have a water jug and three canteens.”
“Mine is half empty,” Adolin noted.
“Mine too,” Azure said. “Which means we have maybe one day’s worth of water and three meals for four people. Last time I crossed Shadesmar, it took four weeks.”
“Obviously,” Kaladin said, “we have to get back through the Oathgate into the city.”
Pattern hummed, standing behind Shallan. He seemed like a statue; he didn’t shift his weight or move in small ways like a human would. Kaladin’s spren was different. She always seemed to be moving, slipping this way or that, girlish dress rippling as she walked, her hair swaying.
“Bad,” Pattern said. “The spren of the Oathgate are bad now.”
“Do we have any other options?” Kaladin said.
“I remember … some,” Syl said. “Much more than I used to. Our land, every land, is three realms. The highest is the Spiritual, where gods live—there, all things, times, and spaces are made into one.
“We’re now in the Cognitive Realm. Shadesmar, where spren live. You are from the Physical Realm. The only way I know of to transfer there is to be pulled by human emotions. That won’t help you, as you’re not spren.”
“There’s another way to transfer between realms,” Azure said. “I’ve used it.”
Her hair had recovered its dark coloring, and it seemed to Adolin that her scars had faded. Something about her was downright strange. She seemed almost like a spren herself.
She bore his scrutiny, looking from him to Kaladin, to Shallan. Finally she sighed deeply. “Story time?”
“Yes, please,” Adolin replied. “You’ve traveled in this place before?”
“I’m from a far land, and I came to Roshar by crossing this place, Shadesmar.”
“All right,” Adolin said. “But why?”
“I came chasing someone.”
“A friend?”
“A criminal,” she said softly.
“You’re a soldier though,” Kaladin said.
“Not really. In Kholinar, I merely stepped up to do a job nobody else was doing. I thought perhaps the Wall Guard would have information on the man I’m hunting. Everything went wrong, and I got stuck.”
“When you arrived in our land,” Shallan said, “you used an Oathgate to get from Shadesmar to the Physical Realm?”
“No.” Azure laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t know of those until Kal told me about them. I used a portal between realms. Cultivation’s Perpendicularity, they cal
l it. On your side, it’s in the Horneater Peaks.”
“That’s hundreds of miles from here,” Adolin said.
“There’s supposedly another perpendicularity,” Azure said. “It’s unpredictable and dangerous, and appears randomly in different places. My guides warned against trying to hunt it.”
“Guides?” Kaladin said. “Who were these guides?”
“Why, spren of course.”
Adolin glanced toward the distant city they’d left, where there had been fearspren and painspren aplenty.
“Not like those,” Azure said, laughing. “People spren, like these two.”
“Which raises a question,” Adolin said, pointing as the spren with the strange eyes rejoined them. “That’s the soul of my Shardblade. Syl is Kaladin’s, and Pattern Shallan’s. So…” He pointed at the weapon at her belt. “Tell us honestly, Azure. Are you a Knight Radiant?”
“No.”
Adolin swallowed. Say it. “You’re a Herald then.”
She laughed. “No. What? A Herald? Those are basically gods, right? I’m no figure from mythology, thank you very much. I’m just a woman who has been constantly out of her league since adolescence. Trust me.”
Adolin glanced at Kaladin. He didn’t seem convinced either.
“Really,” Azure said. “There’s no spren here for my Blade because it’s flawed. I can’t summon or dismiss it, like you can yours. She’s a handy weapon, but a pale copy of what you carry.” She patted it. “Anyway, when I last crossed this place, I hired a ship to convey me.”
“A ship?” Kaladin said. “Sailed by whom?”
“Spren. I hired it at one of their cities.”
“Cities?” Kaladin looked toward Syl. “You have cities?”
“Where did you think we lived?” Syl said, amused.
“Lightspren are usually guides,” Azure continued. “They like to travel, to see new places. They sail all across Roshar’s Shadesmar, peddling goods, trading with other spren. Um … you’re supposed to watch out for Cryptics.”
Pattern hummed happily. “Yes. We are very famous.”
“What about using Soulcasting?” Adolin looked to Shallan. “Could you make us supplies?”
“I don’t think it would work,” Shallan replied. “When I Soulcast, I change an object’s soul here in this realm, and it reflects in the other world. If I changed one of these beads, it might become something new in the Physical Realm—but it would still be a bead to us.”
“Food and water aren’t impossible to find here,” Azure said, “if you can make it to a port city. The spren don’t need these things, but humans living on this side—and there are some—need a constant supply. With that Stormlight of yours, we can trade. Maybe buy passage to the Horneater Peaks.”
“That would take a long time,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar is falling right now, and the Blackthorn needs us. It—”
He was interrupted by a haunting screech. It was reminiscent of sheets of steel grinding against one another. It was met by others, echoing in unison. Adolin spun toward the sounds, shocked by their intensity. Syl put her hands to her lips, and Pattern cocked his strange head.
“What was that?” Kaladin demanded.
Azure hurriedly began shoving their supplies into Kaladin’s pack. “You remember before we slept, how I said we’d be fine unless we attracted the wrong spren?”
“… Yes?”
“We should get moving. Now.”
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Dalinar stumbled as he swept everything from the dresser, upending a bowl of hot soup. He didn’t want soup. He yanked out drawers, dumping clothing to the ground, steam curling from the spilled broth.
They’d done it again! They’d taken his bottles. How dare they! Couldn’t they hear the weeping? He roared, then grabbed his trunk, overturning it. A flask rolled out along with the clothing. Finally! Something they hadn’t found.
He slurped down the dregs it contained, and groaned. The weeping echoed around him. Children dying. Evi begging for her life.
He needed more.
But … wait, did he need to be presentable? The hunt? Was that today?
Stupid man, he thought. The last of the hunts had been weeks ago. He’d convinced Gavilar to come with him out into the wilderness, and the trip had gone well. Dalinar had been presentable—sober, commanding even. A figure right from the storming songs. They’d discovered those parshmen. They’d been so interesting.
For a time, away from civilization, Dalinar had felt like himself. His old self.
He hated that person.
Growling, he dug in his large wardrobe. This fort on the eastern rim of Alethkar was the first mark of civilization on their trip home. It had given Dalinar access, again, to the necessities of life. Like wine.
He barely heard the rap on his door as he flung coats out of the wardrobe. When he looked over, he saw two youths standing there. His sons. Angerspren boiled around him. Her hair. Her judgmental eyes. How many lies about him had she stuffed into their heads?
“What?” Dalinar roared.
Adolin stood his ground. Almost seventeen now, fully a man. The other one, the invalid, cringed down. He looked younger than his … what … twelve years? Thirteen?
“We heard the commotion, sir,” Adolin said, jutting out his chin. “We thought you might need help.”
“I need nothing! Out! GET OUT!”
They scrambled away.
Dalinar’s heart raced. He slammed the wardrobe and pounded his fists on the bedside table, toppling the sphere lamp. Puffing, groaning, he fell to his knees.
Storms. They were only a few days’ march from the ruins of Rathalas. Was that why the screaming was louder today?
A hand fell on his shoulder. “Father?”
“Adolin, so help me—” Still kneeling, Dalinar turned, then cut off. It wasn’t Adolin, but the other one. Renarin had returned, timid as always, his spectacled eyes wide and his hand trembling. He held something out.
A small bottle. “I…” Renarin swallowed. “I got you one, with the spheres the king gave me. Because you always go through what you buy so quickly.”
Dalinar stared at that bottle of wine for an endless moment. “Gavilar hides the wine from me,” he mumbled. “That’s why none is left. I … couldn’t possibly … have drunk it all.…”
Renarin stepped in and hugged him. Dalinar flinched, bracing as if for a punch. The boy clung to him, not letting go.
“They talk about you,” Renarin said, “but they’re wrong. You just need to rest, after all the fighting you did. I know. And I miss her too.”
Dalinar licked his lips. “What did she tell you?” he said, voice ragged. “What did your mother say about me?”
“The only honest officer in the army,” Renarin said, “the honorable soldier. Noble, like the Heralds themselves. Our father. The greatest man in Alethkar.”
What stupid words. Yet Dalinar found himself weeping. Renarin let go, but Dalinar grabbed him, pulling him close.
Oh, Almighty. Oh God. Oh God, please … I’ve started to hate my sons. Why hadn’t the boys learned to hate him back? They should hate him. He deserved to be hated.
Please. Anything. I don’t know how to get free of this. Help me. Help me …
Dalinar wept and clung to that youth, that child, as if he were the only real thing left in a world of shadows.
Yelig-nar had great powers, perhaps the powers of all Surges compounded in one. He could transform any Voidbringer into an extremely dangerous enemy. Curiously, three legends I found mention swallowing a gemstone to engage this process.
—From Hessi’s Mythica, page 27
Kaladin marched at speed through Shadesmar, trying—with difficulty—to control the simmering dissatisfaction inside of him.
“Mmmm…” Pattern said as another screech sounded behind them. “Humans, you must stop your emotions. They are very inconvenient here.”
The group hiked southward, along the narrow line of land that overlaid the river in
the real world. Shallan was the slowest of them, and had difficulty keeping up, so they’d agreed she should hold a little Stormlight. It was either that, or let the screeching spren reach them.
“What are they like?” Adolin said to Azure, puffing as they marched. “You said those sounds were from angerspren? Boiling pools of blood?”
“That’s the part you see in the Physical Realm,” Azure said. “Here … that’s merely their saliva, pooling as they drool. They’re nasty.”
“And dangerous,” Syl said. She scampered along the obsidian ground, and didn’t seem to get tired. “Even to spren. But how did we draw them? Nobody was angry, right?”
Kaladin tried again to smother his frustration.
“I wasn’t feeling anything other than tired,” Shallan said.
“I felt overwhelmed,” Adolin said. “Still do. But not angry.”
“Kaladin?” Syl said.
He looked at the others, then down at his feet. “It just feels like … like we’re abandoning Kholinar. And only I care. You were talking about how to get food, find a way to the Horneater Peaks, this perpendicularity or whatever. But we’re abandoning people to the Voidbringers.”
“I care too!” Adolin said. “Bridgeboy, that was my home. It—”
“I know,” Kaladin snapped. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “I know, Adolin. I know it’s not rational to try to get back through the Oathgate. We don’t know how to work it from this side, and besides, it’s obviously been corrupted. My emotions are irrational. I’ll try to contain them. I promise.”
They fell silent.
You’re not angry at Adolin, Kaladin thought forcefully. You’re not actually angry at anyone. You’re just looking for something to latch on to. Something to feel.
Because the darkness was coming.
It fed off the pain of defeat, the agony of losing men he’d tried to protect. But it could feed off anything. Life going well? The darkness would whisper that he was only setting himself up for a bigger fall. Shallan glances at Adolin? They must be whispering about him. Dalinar sends him to protect Elhokar? The highprince must want to get rid of Kaladin.
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