“How hard would it to be to make everyone stop using parshmen as slaves? Give them away, or . . .” Storms. She didn’t want to start a genocide here, did she? But these were the Voidbringers. “. . . or set them free or something. Get them out of the warcamps.”
“How difficult would it be?” Adolin said. “Off the cuff, I’d say impossible. That, or really impossible. Why would we even want to do something like that?”
“Jasnah thought they might be related to the Voidbringers and their return.”
Adolin shook his head, looking bemused. “Shallan, we can barely get the highprinces to fight this war properly. If my father or the king were to require everyone to get rid of their parshmen . . . Storms! It would break the kingdom in a heartbeat.”
So Jasnah was right on that count as well. Unsurprising. Shallan was interested to see how violently Adolin himself opposed the idea. He took a big gulp of wine, seeming utterly floored.
Time to pull back, then. This meeting had gone very well; she wouldn’t want to end it on a sour note. “It was something Jasnah said,” Shallan said, “but really, I’d rather that Brightlady Navani judge how important a suggestion it was. She would know her daughter, her notes, better than anyone.”
Adolin nodded. “So go to her.”
Shallan tapped the paper in her fingers. “I’ve tried. She’s not been very accommodating.”
“Aunt Navani can be overbearing sometimes.”
“It’s not that,” Shallan said, scanning the words on the letter. It was a reply she’d gotten after requesting to meet the woman and discuss her daughter’s work. “She doesn’t want to meet with me. She barely seems to want to acknowledge I exist.”
Adolin sighed. “She doesn’t want to believe. About Jasnah, I mean. You represent something to her—the truth, in a way. Give her time. She just needs to grieve.”
“I’m not certain if this is something that should wait, Adolin.”
“I’ll talk to her,” he said. “How about that?”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Much like you yourself.”
He grinned. “It’s nothing. I mean, if we’re going to halfway-almost-kind-of-maybe-get-married, we should probably look out for one another’s interests.” He paused. “Don’t mention that parshman thing to anyone else, though. That’s not something that will go over well.”
She nodded absently, then realized she’d been staring at him. She was going to kiss those lips of his someday. She let herself imagine it.
And, Ash’s eyes . . . he had a very friendly way about him. She hadn’t expected that in someone so highborn. She’d never actually met anyone of his rank before coming to the Shattered Plains, but all the men she knew near his level had been stiff and even angry.
Not Adolin. Storms, but being with him was something else she could get very, very used to.
People began to stir on the patio. She ignored them for a moment, but then many began to stand up from their seats, looking eastward.
Highstorm. Right.
Shallan felt a spike of alarm as she looked toward the Origin of Storms. The wind picked up, leaves and bits of refuse fluttering across the patio. Down below, the Outer Market had been packed up, tents folded away, awnings withdrawn, windows closed. The entirety of the warcamps braced itself.
Shallan stuffed her things into her satchel, then rose to her feet, stepping to the edge of the terrace, freehand fingers on the stone railing there. Adolin joined her. Behind them, people whispered and gathered. She heard iron grinding across stone; the parshmen had begun pulling away the tables and chairs, stowing them to both protect them and make a path for the lighteyes to retreat to safety.
The horizon had bled from light to dark, like a man flushing with anger. Shallan gripped the railing, watching the entire world transform. Vines withdrew, rockbuds closed. Grass hid in its holes. They knew, somehow. They all knew.
The air grew chill and wet, and prestorm winds gusted against her, blowing her hair back. Below and just to the north, the warcamps had piled refuse and waste to be blown away with the storm. It was a forbidden practice in most civilized areas, where that waste could blow into the next town. Out here, there was no next town.
The horizon grew even darker. A few people on the balcony fled to the back room’s safety, their nerves getting the better of them. Most stayed, silent. Windspren zipped in tiny rivers of light overhead. Shallan took Adolin by the arm, staring eastward. Minutes passed until finally, she saw it.
The stormwall.
A huge sheet of water and debris blown before the storm. In places, it flashed with light from behind, revealing movement and shadows within. Like the skeleton of a hand when light illuminated the flesh, there was something inside this wall of destruction.
Most of the people fled the balcony, though the stormwall was still distant. In moments, only a handful remained, Shallan and Adolin among them. She watched, transfixed, as the storm approached. It took longer than she’d expected. It was moving at a terrible speed, but it was so large, they’d been able to spot it from quite a distance.
It consumed the Shattered Plains, one plateau at a time. Soon, it loomed over the warcamps, coming on with a roar.
“We should go,” Adolin eventually said. She barely heard him.
Life. Something lived inside that storm, something that no artist had ever drawn, no scholar had ever described.
“Shallan!” Adolin began to tow her toward the protected room. She grabbed the railing with her freehand, remaining in place, clutching her satchel to her chest with her safehand. That humming, that was Pattern.
She’d never been so close to a highstorm. Even when she’d been only inches away from one, separated by a window shutter, she had not been as close as she was now. Watching that darkness descend upon the warcamps . . .
I need to draw.
“Shallan!” Adolin said, pulling her away from the railing. “They’ll close the doors if we don’t go now!”
With a start, she realized that everyone else had left the balcony. She allowed Adolin to get her moving, and she joined him in a dash across the empty patio. They reached the room at the side, packed with huddled lighteyes who watched in terror. Adolin’s guards entered right after her, and several parshmen slammed the thick doors. The bar thumped in place, locking out the sky, leaving them to the light of spheres on the walls.
Shallan counted. The highstorm hit—she could feel it. Something beyond the thumping of the door and the distant sound of thunder.
“Six seconds,” she said.
“What?” Adolin asked. His voice was hushed, and others in the room spoke in whispers.
“It took six seconds after the servants closed the doors until the storm hit. We could have spent that much longer out there.”
Adolin regarded her with an incredulous expression. “When you first realized what we were doing on that balcony, you seemed terrified.”
“I was.”
“Now you wish you’d stayed out until the last moment before the storm hit?”
“I . . . yeah,” she said, blushing.
“I have no idea what to make of you.” Adolin regarded her. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”
“It’s my air of feminine mystique.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s a term we use,” she said, “when we’re feeling particularly erratic. It’s considered polite not to point out that you know this. Now, do we just . . . wait in here?”
“In this box of a room?” Adolin asked, sounding amused. “We’re lighteyes, not livestock.” He gestured to the side, where several servants had opened doors leading to places burrowed deeper into the mountain. “Two sitting rooms. One for men, the other for women.”
Shallan nodded. Sometimes during a highstorm, the genders would retire to separate rooms to chat. It looked like the winehouse followed this tradition. They’d probably have finger food. Shallan walked toward the indicated room, but Adolin rested a hand on her arm, making her pause.
“I’ll see about getting you out onto the Shattered Plains,” he said. “Amaram wants to go explore more, he’s said, than he gets to during a plateau run. I think he and Father are having dinner to talk about it tomorrow night, and I can ask then if I can bring you. I’ll also talk to Aunt Navani. Maybe we can discuss what I’ve come up with at the feast next week?”
“There’s a feast next week?”
“There’s always a feast next week,” Adolin said. “We just have to figure out who’s throwing it. I’ll send to you.”
She smiled, and then they separated. Next week is not soon enough, she thought. I’ll have to find a way to drop in on him when it’s not too awkward.
Had she really promised to help him breed chasmfiends? As if she needed something else to take her time. Still, she felt good about the day as she entered the women’s sitting room, her guards taking their places in the appropriate waiting room.
Shallan strolled through the women’s room, which was well lit with gemstones gathered in goblets—cut stones, but not in spheres. An expensive display.
She felt that, if her teachers had been watching, both would have been disappointed at her conversation with Adolin. Tyn would have wanted her to manipulate the prince more; Jasnah would have wanted Shallan to be more poised, more in control of her tongue.
It seemed that Adolin liked her anyway. That made her want to cheer.
The looks of the women about her washed away that emotion. Some turned backs toward Shallan, and others pressed their lips together and looked her up and down skeptically. Courting the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor was not going to make her popular, not when she was an outsider.
That didn’t bother Shallan. She didn’t need acceptance from these women; she just needed to find Urithiru and the secrets it contained. Gaining Adolin’s trust was a big step in that direction.
She decided to reward herself by stuffing her face with sweets and thinking further on her plan to sneak into Brightlord Amaram’s house.
And now, if there was an uncut gem among the Radiants, it was the Willshapers; for though enterprising, they were erratic, and Invia wrote of them, “capricious, frustrating, unreliable,” as taking it for granted that others would agree; this may have been an intolerant view, as often Invia expressed, for this order was said to be most varied, inconsistent in temperament save for a general love of adventure, novelty, or oddity.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 7, page 1
Adolin sat in a high-backed chair, cup of wine in his hand, listening to the highstorm rumble outside. He should have felt safe in this bunker of rock, but there was something about storms that undercut any sense of security, no matter how rational. He’d be glad for the Weeping, and the end of the highstorms for a few weeks.
Adolin raised his cup toward Elit, who stomped past. He hadn’t seen the man above, on the winehouse terrace, but this chamber also served as a highstorm bunker for several shops in the Outer Market.
“Are you ready for our duel?” Adolin asked. “You’ve made me wait an entire week so far, Elit.”
The short, balding man took a drink of wine, then lowered his cup, not looking at Adolin. “My cousin is planning to kill you for challenging me,” he said. “Right after he kills me for agreeing to the challenge.” He finally turned toward Adolin. “But when I stomp you into the sands and claim all of your family’s Shards, I’ll be the rich one and he’ll be forgotten. Am I ready for our duel? I long for it, Adolin Kholin.”
“You’re the one who wanted to wait,” Adolin noted.
“The more time to savor what I’m going to do to you.” Elit smiled with white lips, then moved on.
Creepy fellow. Well, Adolin would deal with him in two days, the date of their duel. Before that, though, was tomorrow’s meeting with the Parshendi Shardbearer. It loomed over him like a thunderhead. What would it mean, if they finally found peace?
He mulled over that thought, regarding his wine and listening with half an ear to Elit chatting behind him with someone. Adolin recognized that voice, didn’t he?
Adolin sat upright, then looked over his shoulder. How long had Sadeas been back there, and why hadn’t Adolin spotted him when first entering?
Sadeas turned to him, a calm smile on his face.
Maybe he’ll just . . .
Sadeas strolled up to Adolin, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a fashionable open-fronted short brown coat and an embroidered green stock. The buttons along the front of the coat were gemstones. Emeralds to match the stock.
Storms. He did not want to deal with Sadeas today.
The highprince took the seat beside Adolin, their backs to a hearth that a parshman had begun stoking. The room contained a low hum of nervous conversation. You could never quite be comfortable, no matter how pretty the decor, when a highstorm raged outside.
“Young Adolin,” Sadeas said. “What do you think of my coat?”
Adolin took a gulp of wine, not trusting himself to reply. I should just get up and walk away. But he didn’t. A small part of him wished for Sadeas to provoke him, push away his inhibitions, drive him to do something stupid. Killing the man right here, right now, would likely earn Adolin an execution—or at least an exile. It might be worth either punishment.
“You’ve always been so keen-eyed when it comes to style,” Sadeas continued. “I’d know your opinion. I do think the coat is splendid, but I worry that the short cut might be trending out of fashion. What is the latest from Liafor?”
Sadeas pulled out the front of his jacket, moving his hand to display a ring that matched the buttons. The ring’s emerald, like those on the jacket, was uncut. They glowed softly with Stormlight.
Uncut emeralds, Adolin thought, then looked up to meet Sadeas’s eyes. The man smiled.
“The gemstones are recent acquisitions,” Sadeas noted. “I am fond of them.”
Gained from doing a plateau run with Ruthar that he wasn’t supposed to have been on. Racing ahead of the other highprinces, like this was the old days, where each prince tried to be first and claim their winnings.
“I hate you,” Adolin whispered.
“As well you should,” Sadeas said, letting go of his coat. He nodded toward Adolin’s bridgeman guards, watching with overt hostility nearby. “My former property is treating you well? I’ve seen their like patrolling the market here. I find that amusing for reasons I doubt I could ever properly express.”
“They patrol,” Adolin said, “to create a better Alethkar.”
“Is that what Dalinar wants? I am surprised to hear it. He talks of justice, of course, but he doesn’t allow justice to take its course. Not properly.”
“And I know where you’re going, Sadeas,” Adolin snapped. “You’re annoyed that we haven’t been letting you put judges into our warcamp as Highprince of Information. Well, I’ll have you know that Father has decided to let—”
“Highprince of . . . Information? You didn’t hear? I recently renounced the title.”
“What?”
“Yes,” Sadeas said. “I fear I was never a good match for the position. My Shalashian temperament, perhaps. I wish Dalinar good fortune in finding a replacement—though from what I’ve heard, the other highprinces have come to an agreement that none of us are . . . suited to these kinds of appointments.”
He renounces the king’s authority, Adolin thought. Storms, this was bad. He gritted his teeth, and found himself reaching his hand to the side to summon his Blade. No. He pulled the hand back. He’d find a way to force this man into the dueling ring. Killing Sadeas now—no matter how much he deserved it—would undermine the very laws and codes Adolin’s father was working so hard to uphold.
But storms . . . Adolin was tempted.
Sadeas smiled again. “Do you think me an evil man, Adolin?”
“That’s too simple a term,” Adolin snapped. “You’re not just evil, you’re a selfish, crem-crusted eel who is trying to strangle this kingdom with his bulbous, bastard hand.”
“Eloquent,” Sadeas said. “You realize I created this kingdom.”
“You only helped my father and uncle.”
“Men who are both gone,” Sadeas said. “The Blackthorn is as dead as old Gavilar. Instead, two idiots rule this kingdom, and each one is—in a way—a shadow of a man I loved.” He leaned forward, looking Adolin straight in the eyes. “I’m not strangling Alethkar, son. I’m trying with everything I have to keep a few chunks of it strong enough to weather the collapse your father is bringing.”
“Don’t call me son,” Adolin hissed.
“Fine,” Sadeas said, standing. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m glad you survived the events on the Tower that day. You’ll make a fine highprince in the coming months. I have a feeling that in ten years or so—following an extended civil war between the two of us—our alliance will be a strong one. By then, you’ll understand why I did what I did.”
“I doubt it. I’ll have rammed my sword through your gut long before that, Sadeas.”
Sadeas raised his cup of wine, then walked off, joining a different group of lighteyes. Adolin let out a long sigh of exhaustion, then leaned back against the chair. Nearby, his short bridgeman guard—the one with the silver at his temples—gave Adolin a nod of respect.
Adolin slumped there, feeling drained, until long after the highstorm ended and people started to depart. Adolin preferred to wait until the rain stopped completely before leaving, anyway. He never had liked how his uniform looked when it got wet.
Eventually, he rose, collected his two guards, and stepped out of the winehouse to a grey sky and a deserted Outer Market. He was mostly over the conversation with Sadeas, and kept reminding himself that up to that point the day had been going very well.
Shallan and her carriage had already gone, of course. He could have ordered a ride for himself, but after being locked away for so long, it felt good to be walking in the open air; chill, wet, and fresh from the storm.
Hands in the pockets of his uniform, he started along a pathway through the Outer Market, strolling around puddles. Gardeners had begun growing ornamental shalebark along the sides of the path, though it wasn’t very high yet, just a few inches. A good shalebark ridge could take years to grow properly.
Those two insufferable bridgemen followed along behind him. Not that Adolin minded the men personally—they seemed like amiable enough fellows, particularly when away from their commander. Adolin just didn’t like needing minders. Though the storm had passed into the west, the afternoon felt gloomy. Clouds obscured the sun, which had moved from its zenith and was drooping slowly toward the distant horizon. He didn’t pass many people, so his only companions were the bridgemen—well, those and a legion of cremlings that had emerged to feast upon plants that lapped at water in pools.
Why did plants spend so much more time in their shells out here than they did back home? Shallan probably knew. He smiled, forcing thoughts of Sadeas into the back of his mind. This thing with Shallan, it was working. It always worked at first though, so he contained his enthusiasm.
She was marvelous. Exotic, witty, and not smothered in Alethi propriety. She was smarter than he was, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. That was a large point in her favor.
He passed out of the market, then crossed the open ground beyond it, eventually reaching Dalinar’s warcamp. The guards let him through with crisp salutes. He idled in the warcamp market, comparing the wares he saw here with those in the market near the Pinnacle.
What will happen to this place, Adolin thought, when the war stops? It would end someday. Perhaps tomorrow, with the negotiations with the Parshendi Shardbearer.
The Alethi presence wouldn’t end here, not with the chasmfiends to hunt, but surely this large a population couldn’t continue, could it? Could he really be witnessing a permanent shift of the king’s seat?
Hours later—after spending some time at jewelry shops looking for something for Shallan—Adolin and his guards reached his father’s complex. By then, Adolin’s feet were starting to ache and the camp had grown dark. He yawned, making his way through the cavernous guts of his father’s bunkerish dwelling. Wasn’t it about time they built a proper mansion? Being an example for the men was all well and good, but there were certain standards a family like theirs should uphold. Particularly if the Shattered Plains were going to remain as important as they had been. It was . . .
He hesitated, stopping at an intersection and looking right. He’d been intending to visit the kitchens for a snack, but a group of men moved and threw shadows in the other direction. Hushed whispers.
“What is this?” Adolin demanded, marching toward the gathering, his two guards following. “Soldiers? What have you found?”
The men scrambled to turn and salute, spears to shoulders. They were more bridgemen from Kaladin’s unit. Just beyond them were the doors to the wing where Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin all made their quarters. Those doors lay open, and the men had set spheres on the ground.
What was going on? Normally, two or maybe four men would be on guard here. Not eight. And . . . why was there a parshman wearing a guardsman uniform, holding a spear with the others?
“Sir!” said a lanky, long-armed man at the front of the bridgemen. “We were just heading in to check on the highprince, when . . .”
Adolin didn’t hear the rest. He pushed through the bridgemen, finally seeing what the spheres illuminated on the floor of the sitting room.
More scratched glyphs. Adolin knelt down, trying to read them. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been drawn in any kind of picture to help. He thought they were numbers . . .
“Thirty-two days,” said one of the bridgemen, a short Azish man. “Seek the center.”
Damnation. “Have you told anyone of this?” Adolin asked.
“We just found it,” the Azish man said.
“Post guards at either end of the hallway,” Adolin said. “And send for my aunt.”
* * *