Kaladin moved tiredly through the palace hallways, retracing the route he’d led them along only a short time before. Down toward the kitchens, into the hallway with the hole cut out into the air. Past the place where Dalinar’s blood spotted the floor, to the intersection.
Where Beld’s corpse lay. Kaladin knelt down, rolling the body over. The eyes were burned out. Above those dead eyes remained the tattoos of freedom that Kaladin had designed.
Kaladin closed his own eyes. I’ve failed you, he thought. The balding, square-faced man had survived Bridge Four and the rescue of Dalinar’s armies. He’d survived Damnation itself, only to fall here, to an assassin with powers he should not have.
Kaladin groaned.
“He died protecting.” Syl’s voice.
“I should be able to keep them alive,” Kaladin said. “Why didn’t I just let them go free? Why did I bring them to this duty, and more death?”
“Someone has to fight. Someone has to protect.”
“They’ve done enough! They’ve bled their share. I should banish them all. Dalinar can find different bodyguards.”
“They made the choice,” Syl said. “You can’t take that from them.”
Kaladin knelt, struggling with his grief.
You have to learn when to care, son. His father’s voice. And when to let go. You’ll grow calluses.
He never had. Storm him, he never had. It was why he’d never made a good surgeon. He couldn’t lose patients.
And now, now he killed? Now he was a soldier? How did that make any sense? He hated how good he was at killing.
He took a deep breath, regaining control, with effort. “He can do things I can’t,” he finally said, opening his eyes and looking toward Syl, who stood in the air near him. “The assassin. Is it because I have more Words to speak?”
“There are more,” Syl said. “You’re not ready for them yet, I don’t think. Regardless, I think you could already do what he does. With practice.”
“But how is he Surgebinding? You said that the assassin had no spren.”
“No honorspren would give that creature the means to slaughter as he does.”
“Perspectives can be different among humans,” Kaladin said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice as he turned Beld facedown so he wouldn’t have to see those shriveled, burned-out eyes. “What if the honorspren thought this assassin was doing the right thing? You gave me the means to slaughter Parshendi.”
“To protect.”
“In their eyes, the Parshendi are protecting their kind,” Kaladin said. “To them, I’m the aggressor.”
Syl sat down, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I don’t know. Maybe. But no other honorspren are doing what I do. I am the only one who disobeyed. But his Shardblade . . .”
“What of it?” Kaladin asked.
“It was different. Very different.”
“It looked ordinary to me. Well, as ordinary as a Shardblade can.”
“It was different,” she repeated. “I feel I should know why. Something about the amount of Light he was consuming . . .”
Kaladin rose, then walked down the side corridor, holding up his lamp. It bore sapphires, turning the walls blue. The assassin had cut that hole with his Blade, entered the corridor, and killed Beld. But Kaladin had sent two men on ahead.
Yes, another body. Hobber, one of the first men Kaladin had saved in Bridge Four. Storms take that assassin! Kaladin remembered saving this man after he had been left by everyone else to die on the plateau.
Kaladin knelt beside the corpse, rolled it over.
And found it weeping.
“I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” Hobber said, overcome with emotion and barely able to speak. “I’m sorry, Kaladin.”
“Hobber!” Kaladin said. “You’re alive!” Then he noticed that the legs of Hobber’s uniform had been sliced through at midthigh. Beneath the fabric, Hobber’s legs were darkened and grey, dead, as Kaladin’s arm had been.
“I didn’t even see him,” Hobber said. “He cut me down, then stabbed Beld straight through. I listened to you fighting. I thought you’d all died.”
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “You’re all right.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Hobber said. “They’re gone. I’m no soldier anymore, sir. I’m useless now. I—”
“No,” Kaladin said firmly. “You’re still Bridge Four. You’re always Bridge Four.” He forced himself to smile. “We’ll just have Rock teach you how to cook. How are you with stew?”
“Awful, sir,” Hobber said. “I can burn broth.”
“Then you’ll fit right in with most military cooks. Come on, let’s get you back to the others.” Kaladin strained, getting his arms under Hobber, trying to lift him.
His body would have none of it. He let out an involuntary groan, putting Hobber back down.
“It’s all right, sir,” Hobber said.
“No,” Kaladin said, sucking in the Light of one of the spheres in the lamp. “It’s not.” He heaved again, lifting Hobber, then carried him back toward the others.
Our gods were born splinters of a soul,
Of one who seeks to take control,
Destroys all lands that he beholds, with spite.
They are his spren, his gift, his price.
But the nightforms speak of future life,
A challenged champion. A strife even he must requite.
—From the Listener Song of Secrets, final stanza
Highprince Valam might be dead, Brightness Tyn, the spanreed wrote. Our informants are uncertain. He was never in the best of health, and now there are rumors that his illness finally overcame him. His forces are gearing up to seize Vedenar, however, so if he’s dead, his bastard son is likely pretending he is not.
Shallan sat back, though the reed continued writing. It moved seemingly of its own volition, paired to an identical reed used by Tyn’s associate somewhere in Tashikk. They’d set up regular camp following the highstorm, Shallan joining Tyn in her magnificent tent. The air still smelled of rain, and the floor of the tent let some water leak through, wetting Tyn’s rug. Shallan wished she’d worn her oversized boots instead of slippers.
What would it mean for her family if the highprince was dead? He had been one of her father’s main problems in the latter days of his life, and her house had gone into debt securing allies to win the highprince’s ear or perhaps—instead—to try to unseat him. A succession war could pressure the people who held her family’s debts, and that might make them come to her brothers demanding payments. Or, instead, the chaos could cause the creditors to forget about Shallan’s brothers and their insignificant house. And what of the Ghostbloods? Would the succession war make them more or less likely to come, demanding their Soulcaster?
Stormfather! She needed more information.
The reed continued to move, listing the names of those who were making a play for the throne of Jah Keved. “Do you know any of these people personally?” Tyn asked, arms crossed contemplatively as she stood beside the writing table. “What’s happening might offer us some opportunities.”
“I wasn’t important enough for those types,” Shallan said with a grimace. It was true.
“We might want to make our way to Jah Keved, regardless,” Tyn said. “You know the culture, the people. That’ll be useful.”
“It’s a war zone!”
“War means desperation, and desperation is our mother’s milk, kid. Once we follow your lead at the Shattered Plains—maybe pick up another member or two for our team—we probably will want to go visit your homeland.”
Shallan felt an immediate stab of guilt. From what Tyn said, the stories she told, it had become clear that she often chose to have someone like Shallan under her wing. An acolyte, someone to nurture. Shallan suspected that was at least partly because Tyn liked having someone around to impress.
Her life must be so lonely, Shallan thought. Always moving, always taking whatever she can get, but never giving. Except once in a while, to a young thief she can foster . . .
A strange shadow moved across the wall of the tent. Pattern, though Shallan only noticed him because she knew what to look for. He could be practically invisible when he wanted to be, though unlike some spren he could not vanish completely.
The spanreed continued to write, giving Tyn a longer rundown of conditions in various countries. After that, it produced a curious statement.
I have checked with informants at the Shattered Plains, the pen wrote. The ones you asked after are, indeed, wanted men. Most are former members of the army of Highprince Sadeas. He is not forgiving of deserters.
“What’s this?” Shallan asked, rising from her stool and going to look more closely at what the pen wrote.
“I implied earlier we’d have to discuss this,” Tyn said, changing the paper for the spanreed. “As I keep explaining, the life we lead requires doing some harsh things.”
The leader, whom you call Vathah, is worth a bounty of four emerald broams, the pen wrote. The rest, two broams each.
“Bounty?” Shallan demanded. “I gave promises to these men!”
“Hush!” Tyn said. “We’re not alone in this camp, fool child. If you want us dead, all you need to do is let them overhear this conversation.”
“We’re not turning them in for money,” Shallan said more softly. “Tyn, I gave my word.”
“Your word?” Tyn said, laughing. “Kid, what do you think we are? Your word?”
Shallan blushed. On the table, the spanreed continued to write, oblivious to the fact they weren’t paying attention. It was saying something about a job Tyn had done before.
“Tyn,” Shallan said, “Vathah and his men can be useful.”
Tyn shook her head, walking over to the side of the tent, pouring herself a cup of wine. “You should be proud of what you did here. You have barely any experience, yet you took over three separate groups, convincing them to put you—practically sphereless and completely without authority—in charge. Brilliant!
“But here’s the thing. The lies we tell, the dreams we create, they’re not real. We can’t let them be real. This might be the hardest lesson you have to learn.” She turned to Shallan, her expression having gone hard, all sense of relaxed playfulness gone. “When a good con woman dies, it’s usually because she starts believing her own lies. She finds something good and wants it to continue. She keeps it going, thinking she can juggle it. One day more, she tells herself. One day more, and then . . .”
Tyn dropped the cup. It hit the ground, the wine splashing bloodred across the tent floor and Tyn’s rug.
Red carpet . . . once it was white . . .
“Your rug,” Shallan said, feeling numb.
“You think I can afford to haul a rug with me when I leave the Shattered Plains?” Tyn asked softly, stepping across the spilled wine, taking Shallan by the arm. “You think we can take any of this? It’s meaningless. You’ve lied to these men. You’ve built yourself up, and tomorrow—when we enter that warcamp—the truth will hit you like a slap in the face.
“You think you can actually get clemency for these men? From a man like Highprince Sadeas? Don’t be an idiot. Even if you get the con going with Dalinar, you want to spend what little credibility we can fake in order to free murderers from Dalinar’s political enemy? How long did you think you could keep this lie going?”
Shallan sat back down on the stool, agitated—both at Tyn and at herself. She shouldn’t be surprised that Tyn wanted to betray Vathah and his men—she knew what Tyn was, and had eagerly let the woman teach her. In truth, Vathah and his men probably did deserve their punishments.
That didn’t mean Shallan was going to betray them. She had told them they could change. She had given her word.
Lies . . .
Just because you learned how to lie didn’t mean you had to let the lie rule you. But how could she protect Vathah without alienating Tyn? Did she even have that option?
What would Tyn do when Shallan proved to actually be the woman betrothed to Dalinar Kholin’s son?
How long did you think you could keep this lie going . . .
“Here now,” Tyn said, smiling broadly. “That’s some good news.”
Shallan shook herself from her ruminations, glancing at what the spanreed had been writing.
In regards to your mission in Amydlatn, it read, our benefactors have written to say that they are pleased. They do want to know if you recovered the information, but I think this is secondary to them. They let slip that they’ve found the information they need elsewhere, something about a city they’ve been researching.
For your part, there is no news of the target surviving. It seems that your worry about the mission’s failure is unfounded. Whatever happened aboard the ship, it worked to our favor. The Wind’s Pleasure is reported lost with all hands. Jasnah Kholin is dead.