Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

“They seem to wear whatever,” Adolin said, pointing. “That’s an Alethi officer’s coat over an Azish scribe’s vest. Tashikki wrap worn with trousers, and there’s almost a full Thaylen tlmko, but they’re missing the boots.”

“No children,” Kaladin noticed.

“There have been a few,” Syl said. “They just don’t look little, like human children.”

“How does that even work?” Adolin said.

“Well, it’s certainly less messy than your method!” She scrunched her face up. “We’re made of power, bits of gods. There are places where that power coalesces, and parts start to be aware. You go, and then come back with a child? I think?”

Adolin chuckled.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“That’s actually not that different from what my nanny told me when I asked her where children come from. A nonsense story about parents baking a new child out of crem clay.”

“It doesn’t happen often,” Syl said as they passed a group of the ash-colored spren sitting around a table and watching the crowds. They eyed the humans with overt hostility, and one flicked fingers toward Kaladin. Those fingers exploded to bits of dust, leaving bones that grew back the flesh.

“Raising children doesn’t happen often?” Adolin asked.

Syl nodded. “It’s rare. Most spren will go hundreds of years without doing it.”

Hundreds of years. “Storms,” Kaladin whispered, considering it. “Most of these spren are that old?”

“Or older,” Syl said. “But aging isn’t the same with spren. Like time isn’t. We don’t learn as fast, or change much, without a bond.”

Towers in the city’s center showed the time by way of fires burning in a set of vertical holes—so they could judge how to meet back with the others in an hour, as agreed. The market turned out to be mostly roofless stalls open to the air, with goods piled on tables. Even in comparison to the improvised market of Urithiru, this seemed … ephemeral to Kaladin. But there were no stormwinds to worry about here, so it probably made sense.

They passed a clothing stall, and of course Adolin insisted on stopping. The oily spren who managed the place had an odd, very terse way of talking, with a strange use of words. But it did speak Alethi, unlike most of Ico’s crew.

Kaladin waited for the prince to finish, until Syl stepped up and presented herself in an oversized poncho tied with a belt. On her head she wore a large, floppy hat.

“What’s that?” Kaladin asked.

“Clothes!”

“Why do you need clothes? Yours are built in.”

“Those are boring.”

“Can’t you change them?”

“Takes Stormlight, on this side,” she said. “Plus, the dress is part of my essence, so I’m actually walking around naked all the time.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Easy for you to say. We bought you clothing. You have three sets!”

“Three?” he said, looking down at his clothing. “I have my uniform, and this one Ico gave me.”

“Plus the one you’re wearing underneath that one.”

“Underwear?” Kaladin said.

“Yeah. That means you have three sets of clothing, while I have none.”

“We need two sets so one can be washed while we wear the other.”

“Just so you won’t be stinky.” She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way. “Look, you can give these to Shallan when I get bored with them. You know she likes hats.”

That was true. He sighed, and when Adolin returned with another set of underclothing for each of them—along with a skirt for Shallan—Kaladin had him haggle for the clothing Syl was wearing too. The prices were shockingly cheap, using a tiny fraction of the money from their writ.

They continued on, passing stalls that sold building materials. According to the signs Syl could read, some items were far more expensive than others. Syl seemed to think the difference had to do with how permanent the thing was in Shadesmar—which made Kaladin worry for the clothing they’d bought.

They found a place selling weapons, and Adolin tried to negotiate while Kaladin browsed. Some kitchen knives. A few hand axes. And sitting in a locked, glass-topped box, a long thin silvery chain.

“You like?” the shopkeeper asked. She was made of vines—her face formed as if from green string—and wore a havah with a crystal safehand exposed. “Only a thousand broams of Stormlight.”

“A thousand broams?” Kaladin asked. He looked down at the box, which was locked to the table and guarded by small orange spren that looked like people. “No thanks.” The pricing here really was bizarre.

The swords proved more expensive than Adolin wanted, but he did buy them two harpoons—and Kaladin felt a lot more secure once one was placed in his hands. Walking on, Kaladin noted that Syl was hunkered down in her oversized poncho, her hair tucked into the collar and her hat pulled down to shadow her face. It seemed like she didn’t trust Shallan’s illusion to keep her from being recognized as an honorspren.

The food stall they found had mostly more “cans” like those on the ship. Adolin started haggling, and Kaladin settled in for another wait, scanning those who passed on the pathway for danger. He found his eyes drawn, however, to a stall across from them. Selling art.

Kaladin had never had much time for art. Either the picture depicted something useful—like a map—or it was basically pointless. And yet, nestled among the paintings for display was a small one painted from thick strokes of oil. White and red, with lines of black. When he looked away, he found himself drawn back toward it, studying the way the highlights played off those dark lines.

Like nine shadows … he thought. With a figure kneeling in the middle …

*

The ashen spren waved excitedly, pointing to the east and then making a cutting motion. She spoke a language Shallan couldn’t understand, but fortunately Pattern could interpret.

“Ah…” he said. “Mmm, yes. I see. She will not sail back to Cultivation’s Perpendicularity. Mmm. No, she will not go.”

“Same excuse?” Shallan asked.

“Yes. Voidspren sailing warships and demanding tribute from any who approach. Oh! She says she would rather trade with honorspren than take another trip to the perpendicularity. I think this is an insult. Ha ha ha. Mmm…”

“Voidspren,” Azure said. “Can she at least explain what that means?”

The ashen spren began speaking quickly after Pattern asked. “Hmm … There are many varieties, she says. Some of golden light, others are red shadows. Curious, yes. And it sounds like some of the Fused are with them—men with shells that can fly. I did not know this.”

“What?” Azure prompted.

“Shadesmar has been changing these last months,” Pattern explained. “Voidspren have arrived mysteriously just west of the Nexus of Imagination. Near Marat or Tukar on your side. Hmm … and they have sailed up and seized the perpendicularity. She says, ahem, ‘You need but spit into a crowd, and you’ll find one, these days.’ Ha ha ha. I do not think she actually has spit.”