Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part 1: Songs Begin

Danahui, Kaladin, Shallan, Hesina

-1-

Humming to Herself

“Despite your words of understanding, I am well aware that our parting pains you. Please know that it wounds me just as deeply. I shall miss our walks in the garden, our stolen moments in your father’s halls, your breathless whispers in the throws of passion. I will return for you, but I know not when. Believe in me, dear one. Believe in us.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Ana Kevanar to Ramora Toma, daughter to Citylord Toma. Sent Tanatashev 1173, collected and copied in-transit

As Salas crept higher and higher into the night sky, setting the scene in a somber violet hue, Danahui strolled into the small town of Hearthstone, passing by home after home with a skip in her step.

It would have been nice to whistle, to provide herself some minor musical accompaniment, but that would rather defeat the purpose of sneaking into the community in the dead of night, would it not?

A few deep bass notes rumbled from the corner of her mind, confirming that yes, it would defeat the purpose, that this was a serious task, and that she should damn well treat it that way.

The familial grumpiness did nothing to wipe the wide, toothy grin from Danahui’s face or the sparkle from her dark amber eyes.

Now, let me see... She pulled out a note from one of the pockets of her purple vest. Looking over the instructions sent to her, she confirmed to herself she’d remembered correctly. The home in question is wide, with two entrances... it should be... around... here!

Passing by the donation box set outside what Danahui assumed was the surgical suite, she approached the front door of the abode and rapped her knuckles against it firmly, but hopefully not so much that the sound would carry to the neighbors. This was a thing Danahui had to worry about often, considering her strength in arm.

There were sounds of confusion and alarm from inside, barely audible through the walls. Ah, they had been sleeping. I shall wait. Tapping her fingers to a beat on her thigh, Danahui stood there as patiently as she could, until finally the door opened and she met the first of her charges.

A man stood just inside, a short one with a balding pate and suspicious eyes. “Is there an emergency?” His looked around, searching for a patient. Yes, this is right place. 'Excellent work, Danahui'. Oh please, Danahui, it was nothing.

It made sense for the small man to be worried. A knock on the door in the middle of the night, revealing a woman nearly six and a half feet tall, with long flowing red hair unconstrained by tail or bun or braid and an obvious strength in her bare arms? Even with her deliberately friendly expression, Danahui was an intimidating woman.

Also, quite the odd woman. To be walking around in the chill of an autumn night in only a vest and trousers, the top a dark shade of purple, embroidered with black stitching and short enough to expose her midriff as much as it did her arms. The glove on her left hand, a silly acknowledgement of lowlander customs, matched the vest in color, and the black pants she wore were tailored tight enough to reveal rather than to conceal all that they contained.

She saw Lirin’s dark eyes settle for a moment on the wooden case Danahui carried on her back, one strap slung around her shoulder, before moving his attention back to her face. He had no clue that within that box contained the most precious item on all of Roshar, at least by Danahui’s personal estimations.

“Hmm,” Danahui considered the question, tapping a calloused finger to her chin. “This situation, yes, you could call her such a thing, though not in way you are thinking.” She spoke with her usual accent, the same one people would expect from an obviously Unkalaki woman, playing with the structure of her sentences to properly capture the right grammatical errors in Alethi. “May this conversation be continuing inside your home?”

She watched the man, Lirin, chew on the idea before nodding and stepping aside, allowing Danahui to move past him into his abode.

It was a small residence, but a comfortable one. Rich in the sort of small touches that came from lifetimes lived inside of it. Chalk markings on one wall, horizontal lines marking up and up, at first in pairs, then alone. Impressions in chairs worn down by use, arranged around a table, two of which were gathering dust.

“Lirin, who is it?” The voice came from the bedroom, dulcet and intoxicating as violet wine. A woman emerged, hair tousled from sleep, and Danahui felt her smile grow by degrees. This, she knew, must be the mother, Hesina.

Suddenly, the task she and her sisters had taken on became much more enjoyable. Hesina was a woman of rugged beauty, like a cliff weathered by time and storms into a landscape worthy of a great artist’s attention. Those full lips, thin face, and sharp chin were all perfect pieces in and of themselves, but when assembled as they were, they made a visage so utterly gorgeous that Danahui knew she’d be dreaming of it until the day she died.

While Danahui was appreciating her, Lirin answered the question as best he could. “I’m not sure, but she seems to think it was worth waking us up.” The surgeon fixed Danahui with a stare, eyes soft but intense. “Well?”

“My name is Una’abatosaia’danahui, but you may call me ‘Danahui’, though many uncultured Vorin lowlanders take the shortening of the name further, to simply ‘Dana’.” She gave an extravagant half-bow with her introduction, which had little effect on Lirin but won a smile from his wife. “I am here because I was commanded to be.”

“By who?” Hesina pushed.

“What for?” Lirin followed.

Danahui pursed her lips, doing her best to recall exactly how much she was supposed to share, and which lies she was supposed to tell. “You two... are having child, yes? Surgeon, sent to Kharbranth?” It had been explicit in Jasnah’s instructions not to gender this ‘Kaladin’ as a woman before her parents, something about how the woman preferred to do it herself when the time came.

This was a thing Danahui respected. That song was Kaladin’s to perform, it had no business in Danahui’s mouth.

Speaking of their daughter made both parents relax visibly, though Lirin looked to be doing his best to hide that relief. Quite the guarded little man. “Kaladin sent you?” Hesina asked, taking a step closer as she did.

“That is case, yes. I am having a letter from this Kaladin, one that is meant for you.” Reaching into a pocket, Danahui removed and unfolded the paper, proffering it towards Hesina. “I was given understanding of situation broadly, but did not try reading of the letter myself. If you would like, I can be stepping out while you are looking over letter.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, please step into the surgery room,” Lirin said.

Bowing her head, Danahui followed where he’d gestured, entering the dark room and giving the couple space to learn exactly how dire things had gotten.

Danahui was an inveterate liar, but it was true that she hadn’t read the letter.

Her sisters, however? Oh, they could be greedy creatures. Not a scrap of paper could pass through the hands of the Lady or the Mercenary without them wanting to peek. Curiosity, that could be a virtue, but Danahui was quite content with not knowing everything she possibly could. Her brain, it would burst! What a tragedy for the world, so many songs never sung! Danahui could not allow it.

Rather than calling her back into the main living quarters, Lirin and Hesina joined Danahui in the darkened surgery suite, both of their expressions clouded with internal strife.

I have to wonder, which is causing them more worry: That they must leave their home, or that their lives are in unspeakable danger? From her own experience, the former could be just as traumatic, if not more so, than the latter.

Hesina opened a drawer, retrieving a bowl of spheres to provide some light while they spoke. Loose change to some, bodily needs sated for a week to others.

“Even if this letter is really from Kaladin,” Lirin began, but before he could say more, his wife gave him a pointed look. He sighed. “Considering that this letter is definitely from Kaladin, it doesn't say anything about who you are. How do we know you're really the one he sent to help us?”

Reverberations pulsed in a curious beat through the web of Danahui’s mind, an impossible sound no instrument could make. The Lady was appreciative of this man’s skepticism, she saw it as a good sign of his ability to survive this journey.

Once, years ago, the Lady would have spoken her thoughts in a sound of bow on strings, so similar to Danahui’s own mental musicality. But time had changed her.

Time changes them all.

Danahui faced down this pessimism with her wide grin still firmly entrenched, gesturing with one hand. “You do not. I could be handing over every letter I am carrying, a stack of evidence as high as Danahui's knee, but even these would not be enough, yes? For what are paper words compared to the risk before you? Reasons unknown, your lives sit on the edge of a cliff.

“Am I a helping hand, or the push towards a messy end?” She laughed from the diaphragm, the sound echoing through the home. “You cannot know! So, will you trust Danahui? Or will Danahui have to fulfill her obligation by more rude means? Deliver you to safety bound and unwilling? She would not savor this task, but she would do it.”

The ultimatum sat before the married couple, and Danahui knew immediately what they had chosen.

Yet, before either could say it out loud, a cry rang out from deeper in the home, from the bedroom.

In an instant, Danahui stepped back, letting the Mercenary take the lead with a scowl settling on their face. Her entire posture shifted, muscles tensed and ready for violence, hand reaching back to the pocket where a weapon lay ready to use.

“It must have been your laugh,” Hesina said, turning away, having missed the change in the body's stance. “I’ll get him... at this point, he’ll have to wake up anyway, won’t he?” Then she retreated, and it occurred to the Mercenary exactly what she had just heard.

A child’s cry.

Feeling frustrated and foolish, the Mercenary stepped back, letting Danahui return. The body loosened, the grin returned, and she was left to ponder just what exactly this sound meant. “You two are having infant child?” she asked Lirin.

It was obvious from the way he looked at her, the silent judgment in his eyes, that he’d seen what his wife had missed. “...yes. We sent word to Kaladin, but I suppose that letter didn’t make it in time.” Then he sighed, and Danahui could see the way time and trauma had bent this man low before his time.

At best, he was in his forties, and yet he looked at least a decade older. Thin and worn.

Danahui knelt down, lowering herself until she and the man were level, eye-to-eye. “Your child, he is going to be safe.” As a performer, Danahui had developed a wide vocal range, and for this, she settled into something lower, yet warmer. The kind of voice that would display confidence, a thing the woman was always having in abundance. “You do not know me, surgeon, but I am first daughter of first daughter of the Lowest Peak, and I swear to you on everything I cherish that your family shall not perish while I draw breath. It is not mattering if Danahui's body is crushed, her spirit broken, so long as you persist.”

“That isn’t how this works.” Lirin shook his head, frowning at her. “If we’re entrusting our lives to you, then you can’t die either.”

“I’ll second that opinion,” Hesina said as she re-entered the room, carrying her child in her arms. It was a tiny thing, already with a full head of dark hair, and such curious eyes. The high notes of a pick on taught strings came in a rush, a flurry of delighted sound, as the Master-servant made obvious her appreciation for this tiny child. Yes, well, when it is being your turn, dear sister, you can spoil him as much as you are wanting. A few more strums, a sign of elated agreement.

Standing with a stretch, Danahui leaned close to the baby, speaking softly. “Hello, tiny person. You are having the pleasure to meet Danahui, greatest musician in history of Jah Keved. I am sure you will be remembering this day for the rest of your life.” Her words got a laugh out of Hesina, while the recipient leaned closer before snatching a lock of her thick red hair and pulling as hard as he could.

This was not very hard, but it still hurt. “That’s what you get for getting too close, wordweaver,” Hesina chided her. She helped retrieve the hair out of the beast’s grasp, before smiling at Danahui in a way that made her consider if, perhaps, misbehaving was worth it if it meant being scolded by this woman.

“So, you two can be packing up, then we shall depart under cover of night?” Danahui suggested, stepping outside of hair-pulling range and resting her arms akimbo once more.

Lirin cleared his throat. “I can handle the packing, but there’s more to be done than that. We’ll need to inform at least some of the town that we’re leaving.” He responded to Danahui’s blank stare with a heated retort. “These people rely on me. I cannot simply disappear.”

“Hmm, this is not so true. You certainly can, and it would be safer for all involved, yes?” Her suggestion hit a wall, not only with Lirin, but with his wife as well.

“He’s right. Tell me where it is exactly that we’re going, and I’ll spread the word.”

Danahui sighed, but accepted this was simply the way things were going to have to go. It was out of her control. “We will be heading to Kevanar estate, in Jah Keved.” She could tell they had questions about where exactly that was and why it would be their destination, but it was not the time for such queries.

“Good. Hesina can tell our neighbors, then when we’re ready to leave, we can stop by the citylord’s manor, and tell him too.”

Under her breath, Danahui muttered a string of epithets in Unkalaki, cursing the Lady and the princess who'd reached out to her for getting them into this ana’kai mess. As wondrously beautiful as Hesina was, would her presence even out this kind of dangerous stupidity? “No, you will not do this thing. I shall.” She pointed off towards the hills outside of town. “There is a wagon with a chull, he is mine. We all meet there, and we leave as soon as we are able.”

There were no arguments on that point, at least. The three adults separated, Hesina handing off the baby to his father while she spread word of their departure.

Leaving Danahui to stroll out of the town towards the citylord who could tear this entire plan to shreds with a word.

Over her years as a traveling musician, Danahui had been to a fair number of lighteyed estates.

She’d found that one could intuit much from the decor such people surrounded themselves with. Bare-bones approaches often spoke to a military mindset, the kind of man who would rather be out on the field than back in his own home. Too lavish an interior allowed one to infer an obsession with status, a desire to be seen as more than one was. Something more personal, though? With hand-carved statues and well-tended shalebark and...

The music that followed Danahui everywhere, that only she could hear, quieted at the thought. That home was gone. Nothing she did, nothing any of them did, would bring it back.

Danahui let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, and went back to studying the furnishings as she waited for this excursion to be over. Trophies of hunts, all old, hung on the wall near maps of Alethkar. A longing for something lost, perhaps?

The idea made her laugh. That, at least, was something she could relate to.

“Welcome to my home. What matter is so pressing that it requires my attention at this late hour?” A soft voice, from behind. Danahui turned around to see she’d been so rapt up in the decor, she’d missed the entrance of her host.

Laral Roshone was a striking woman.

She was at least a head and a half shorter than Danahui, her dark hair mixed with streaks of blonde, her pale green eyes keen. Laral did her best to square her narrow shoulders, to stand beyond her height, back straight and hands folded before her. It was as though she was ashamed of her own youth, and considering what Danahui knew of her marriage, it was a sensible strategy.

Perhaps, in another life, I could sing sweet songs to this lady, ones to calm her heart and ease her burdens. But that was not this life, alas.

Giving the young woman a full bow, flourishing her arms and inclining her head with the motion, Danahui answered the question. “It is a matter of life and death.” Then she rose back up to her full height, looking around at the room, empty of any save her and Laral, and asked, “Is your husband not joining us, brightlady?”

“No, he is not.” There was a heat to her words, as though offended at the question. Considering the man’s age, perhaps he is not entirely able of making an appearance, not without displaying weakness. “Whose life and death, exactly?”

“The surgeon and his wife, down in your town,” Danahui answered, beginning to circle the table in the center of the room to properly approach the woman to whom she spoke. “Problems caused by their eldest born, which have blown back towards them like wall of storm.” She was unhappy with the metaphor. It served well enough for an off-the-cuff turn of phrase, but were she composing a ballad, it would be discarded. Highstorms did not blow south to north.

For just a moment, Laral’s eyes softened, and Danahui swore she saw sympathy color her features. But then it was gone, and she was the brightlady of the estate once more. “Kaladin never was good at holding his tongue.”

“Her tongue,” Danahui corrected, a practice born of time and repetition.

Laral blinked. “Her?”

With a sigh of defeat, Danahui nodded. “Yes, her. I was not to be telling her parents, but it seems my lips have been loosened by the presence of your immaculate beauty, brightlady.” The compliment briefly baffled Laral, her eyes fluttering in a way that only made her prettier. “Do not spread word of this thing I have shared?”

“There’s little need to worry about that.” She seemed amused by this news, though her words were burnt bittersweet at the edges. “With Tien gone...” She shook her head. “We’ll send for a new surgeon, then, once it is clear to all that Lirin has departed. If any ask, where shall I point them?” Danahui gave her the same answer she’d given her charges, and on hearing it, Laral’s eyes glittered with obvious interest. “But that’s not your destination, is it?”

“No, it is not.” Danahui was pleased to see the woman was intelligent enough to see the ruse, at least. “Thank you for your time, Brightlady Roshone, for every second spent in your presence has been an eternity of bliss. However, unless you are having further need of this humble songstress, I must be away.”

Laral gestured with one hand, and Danahui began to walk away. Yet, it seemed the woman did have more to say. “I’ve heard tell of you before this night, Dana the Mad.”

The words caused her to turn around, so she walked backwards towards the door while grinning from ear to ear at the brightlady. “Ah, so even your fine ears have caught Danahui’s name on the winds? What do you think? How do I fare, compared to the myth I have made?” She was almost out the door, but she had to know.

What was the point of building a reputation if she didn’t check up on it, every chance you could?

“You’re not quite as tall as the stories say, but you’re twice as charming,” Laral said, a light blush dusting her cheeks.

Danahui wanted to laugh, loud and full, but this was not the time nor place for such a thing. So instead, she simply winked. “Well then, I will leave the task of updating my legend to you. Live well, Laral Roshone.”

Then Danahui left the woman behind in her remote manor, ready to truly start her task.

There was much ground to cover between Heartstone and the Shattered Plains, and every day that passed would only further the danger that chased them.

The four sisters walked as one to Lirin, to Hesina, to Oroden.

To the future.

Chapter Text

-2-

Sympathy

“Oh muse, how this time apart has shattered my soul! How is Danahui supposed to live, to endure, away from your warmth? The flame within, it dwindles, desperate for the kindness and love which once preserved it. When we see each other once more, you shall be lifted from the ground, spun and embraced and caressed.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Danahui to Zenshi, a barmaid in Marabethia. Sent Vevevev 1171, collected and copied in-transit

“Excuse me, brightness,” said a sailor as he passed Kaladin.

The surgeon scowled and folded her arms in front of her, trying not to feel too strange wearing one of Jasnah’s offered outfits. Not a tightly tailored havah, but a lighteyed woman’s dress all the same, complete with a pinned sleeve. Her safehand felt trapped inside the enclosed fabric, the chest was far too loose on her, and the expensive fabric felt so delicate that Kaladin was constantly worried she would tear it.

The passing comment, one of a few dozen she’d received of that like since they’d left Kharbranth on the Wind's Pleasure, stung all the more because she was wearing the dress.

Syl was dancing as a ribbon above the waves, giggling to herself as the sea became mist with each crash, but suddenly she stopped and flew up to Kaladin. The honorspren reformed into her humanoid shape, alighting on Kaladin’s shoulder wearing not the surgeon apprentice’s uniform Kaladin had gotten used to seeing on her but the girlish dress she’d taken to appearing in recent days. “What’s the matter?”

She sighed. Syl had picked up on the change in Kaladin's mood, and she wouldn’t let it go until they talked about it. “They keep calling me ‘brightness’, apologizing for getting too close.” Kaladin shook her head. “That last one didn’t even come within a few feet of me, and he still felt the need to acknowledge me.” It felt interminable, a punishment she could never escape for what she had done.

“Kaladin, it’s just a word!”

“Syl...” The tone of her voice conveyed just what she thought of that statement.

“Oh!” She blinked, seeming to realize exactly what it was she’d said. “Okay, good point, sometimes words can be hurtful. Like, really, really, really hurtful. But! The sailor didn’t mean anything like that! He was being, I dunno, respectful!” Syl gave Kaladin a pat on the cheek. “To these people, you’re a proper lady!”

Those might have been the worst words Syl could have said.

Kaladin wanted to withdraw into herself, to curl up and disappear. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to be a lady.” Her freehand gripped the fabric of the dress tightly, and she considered for a moment how good it might feel to tear it apart, to destroy this symbol of what was being forced upon her.

By this point, Syl’s previously gleeful attitude had disappeared entirely into concern for Kaladin. Great. As usual, all I do is bring down everyone around me. “I don’t think I understand...”

“Speaking with Syl?” Shallan’s voice came as a surprise, a broam full of Stormlight when Kaladin needed it most. She looked over, and saw Shallan had taken to standing next to her on the deck, facing the ocean beside her. “Anything I should be aware of?” With a gentle grip, Shallan reached up with her freehand, taking Kaladin by the pinned sleeve and holding onto her.

It helped. The ship may have swayed at the discretion of the sea, but Shallan was a steady rock, something for Kaladin to grasp onto. “She’s just worried about me...” Kaladin whispered, closing her eyes and giving Shallan's hand a squeeze.

The scholar leaned closer, resting her head against Kaladin’s shoulder. “Is there something to worry about?”

I could tell her. Kaladin considered it, before throwing the idea aside. Shallan’s always been lighteyed. She’d be sympathetic, but she wouldn’t understand any better than Syl does. “Just the usual problems,” Kaladin told her.

In a way, it was true. This was the sort of thing Kaladin worried about on occasion, before she’d summoned her spren as a Sylblade and changed the color of her eyes in front of so many others.

“I wonder if my own spren will be this inquisitive once it stops...” A buzzing sound came from behind them, made by a rippling pattern on the surface of the wood that could barely be seen. Shallan's spren, apparently. At some point, Syl had flown down, giggling to herself as her attention caused the spren to back away, while her turned back made it come closer. “...being so ridiculous.”

Looking down at the way Syl was playing with the vibrating pattern, Kaladin sighed. “Mine has never stopped being ridiculous.” She shook her head, then turned her attention on...

Her friend? Her partner? Her... lover?

Does that word apply, when all we’ve done is kiss and cuddle? Even thinking that particular term, 'lover', did strange things to Kaladin, her blood rushing to her cheeks as a sense of dread filled her stomach. What if we never do more than that? What if I can’t do more than that?

To her frustration, several twisted black cross shapes appeared in the air near Kaladin, anxietyspren come to reveal her emotions whether she liked it or not.

Even with Kaladin's focus trained out of the sea, and beyond it, on the Frostlands, she could tell Shallan was biting her lip looking up at her, fretting over what she could see. “May I ask a favor?” she asked, voice hesitant.

Kaladin let out a huff, but still said, “Yes, obviously.”

“I think there’s something in my teeth from our breakfast earlier. Can you look closely and check?” Something in her tone of voice, bright as a morning sunrise, told Kaladin she was up to something.

Nonetheless, she took her eyes off the horizon and turned to look down at Shallan.

It was funny. When they’d stumbled into one another, Shallan had been just another lighteyed girl. If Syl had asked after their first meeting what exactly she looked like, there was a good chance Kaladin wouldn’t have recalled.

Now, once Kaladin turned her attention on her, it was difficult look away. Those freckles dusting her cheeks, the bright green of her eyes, the way her lips curled into a self-satisfied smile when she was proved correct. Kaladin still couldn’t say she was attracted to Shallan, but there was definitely something there. Whether she truly found those features beautiful, or if the emotions they brought out in Kaladin was only because they belonged to this irritatingly incredible woman, she didn’t know.

What she did know, after a confused moment, was that there was nothing in Shallan’s teeth. She hadn’t even opened her mouth, instead simply standing on the tips of her toes and kissing Kaladin.

The more times she tried it, the more Kaladin became used to kissing. She closed her eyes, leaning closer into Shallan’s embrace, and kissed back. Or at least, she was pretty sure that’s what she was doing.

She was moving her lips and Shallan seemed to like it, so Kaladin supposed that was all that mattered.

Then, with a sudden cry, Shallan started to slip on the wet deck as the ship rocked from a rushing wave. Kaladin was quick, her hands moving to Shallan’s waist, catching her mid-fall. Kaladin’s dark hair fell around her, surrounding both her and Shallan’s faces like an obscuring curtain. Shallan’s cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing heavily. “Don’t worry,” Kaladin told her. “I’ve got you.”

“I can tell,” Shallan said, voice appreciative. “But, do you think you could set me down?”

Kaladin suddenly realized that she was still holding Shallan off the deck, and quickly helped her to stand once more. Yet, her hands stayed on the other woman’s hips, and they continued to stand close.

“You have a cabin for that, don’t you?” called a heavily accented Thaylen voice from above them, as a sailor half-way through climbing the rigging grinned down at the two of them.

Petals of white and red fell around the two of them, though Kaladin knew that her emotions weren’t the ones to call out to the shamespren. She was feeling many things, but mortified wasn't one of them. Shallan pulled out of her grasp and called up, “Yalb, do not make me sic Jasnah on you!” The threat earned a laugh as the sailor darted away, perhaps more afraid of the punishment than he was willing to admit.

“Speaking of her royal scholar,” Kaladin said, starting to frown once more, “when are we getting the explanation she owes us?”

The answer to that question turned out to be: whenever they remembered to bother her about it.

Of course, once it was all laid out in front of them, Kaladin could tell that Shallan was wishing they’d waited longer. Small yellow triangles broke and reformed around her, rarely seen shockspren in action.

Kaladin could understand why.

They’d met up in Jasnah’s cabin, the door locked with a liberal spreading of Stormlight from Kaladin to stick the door to the frame, a bypass for the issue of the broken latch. Adolin sat on the bed, Kaladin at their side, and Shallan nearby in one of the room’s few chairs.

The princess had laid out her entire theory. The parshman as enslaved Voidbringers, with the potential to return to their previous might at any time. Signs pointing to such an event being on the way, as the spren bonded with humans once more, a last ditch measure after the great betrayal they had once suffered at the hands of humanity. A second secret society, at minimum, beyond what the King was working with, some group called the Ghostbloods who had tried to kill Jasnah before, who coveted the knowledge she had and sought to use it for their own ends.

“Thoughts?” Jasnah asked, once it was all laid out.

Shallan had been the one to volley with her over the details as the thread was spun, but now that the entire tale was told, she had gone quiet, her humming pattern nudging her foot, as though attempting comfort.

Adolin, at least, had something to say. “I’m not saying I think you’re wrong,” they began, “but this is still a lot to swallow. Parshman are so docile, how could they be the Voidbringers?”

“It is that very trait that would make their sudden transformation all the more effective,” Jasnah countered, clearly having prepared for such a debate.

“So would an enemy force suddenly doubling in size mid-battle, but you don’t see many trying that particular tactic, because it’s impossible.” They sighed, shaking their head.

Adolin’s used to how things are, Kaladin considered, too used to looking down at the servants to believe they could be anything else.

“What about you, Kaladin?” Adolin asked her. “You haven’t said a word.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Kaladin met Jasnah’s pale violet eyes, focusing intently on her. “I think you’re onto something. Your evidence is persuasive.”

Jasnah didn’t react. She’s used to people telling her she’s right. “But?” she prodded.

“But... I think you’re jumping to a few conclusions.” She looked at Adolin, then at Shallan. “If you’re right, then the Parshendi are, what? Some group of parshman that escaped enslavement?”

“Possibly. Considering their ability to communicate over vast distances and to change form to better fight on the field of battle, they already show abilities beyond what any human can accomplish. What if there is more, and whatever cataclysm is to come awakens the rest of their potential?” She shook her head. “We have been at war with them for six years without victory, and if the rest of the parshman were to become like them? Our society could be crippled.”

Adolin raised an eyebrow. They’d taken to trying on make-up recently, with Jasnah and Shallan’s help, and while it was kept subtle thus far, Kaladin had to admit it looked good on them. A hint of color to their eyelids, a gentle shade to their lips. “Society, crippled? Oh no. How terrible.” Their tone was light, but everyone knew what they meant.

Their cousin did not apologize, but she did incline her head, an acceptance of the point Adolin had made. Is she really so uncaring? Or is she burning inside with self-recrimination over that, the way I would be?

Meanwhile, Kaladin tried to think through what she wanted to say in a way that wouldn’t get her summarily executed for her impertinence. Then, deciding there was no way that would happen no matter how poorly she phrased it, she chose to say it exactly as it had first come to her. “Have you considered that maybe what you're describing isn’t the end of the world?”

All eyes were suddenly on her. Jasnah’s stare was heated, Adolin’s was confused, and Shallan’s... understanding? Did she see where Kaladin was going with this?

“I’m not saying we should let a Desolation happen, if they’re anything like the legends then I’m completely against that. But Jasnah, I’ve heard about the Parshendi. Not just from soldiers I helped treat in the hospital, from reading of how first contact went with them, from the mouths of those who were there.”

It was obvious Jasnah hadn’t expected to hear that. “You read my father’s account?”

“I skimmed it,” Kaladin admitted. “Out of curiosity. But if those accounts are correct, then no matter how ‘primitive’ their culture, the Parshendi aren’t monsters, they aren’t Voidbringers, they’re just people. Strange ones, from our perspective, but we could say the same for the Azish, or the Irali.”

Jasnah frowned. “While we never learned as much about them as I would have liked, yes, from my early interactions with them, I would say the Parshendi are simply another culture.” The princess’s eyes narrowed at Kaladin. “They also killed my father.”

“Yes, they did. And we still don’t know why.” Kaladin didn’t back down from that glare, she met it head on and kept pressing. “Jasnah, have you considered what your theory really means?” As she began to dig into the true issue at hand, Kaladin felt anger rise inside of her, and with it blood began to bubble on the bed underneath her. “Our entire society is built on the backs of the parshman. Damnation, nearly every society I know of is.”

“Yes.” Jasnah seemed to see exactly where she was going with this, and to Kaladin’s outrage, she did not seem to care. “If my theory is correct, then whatever we did to them, it robbed them of their free will, their intellect, their minds entire. It made them into the perfect slaves, and we have enjoyed the fruits of their labor ever since.”

Kaladin blinked. “How can you just say that?” Her voice was small, too small, too quiet, and yet she knew everyone could hear it. “How can you pretend that it’s just? It’s horrible. If you’re right, then they’re not the monsters. We are.”

She felt a hand on her, as Shallan reached out to touch her, to soothe her. “Kaladin, it would be terrible, yes, but if that is what occurred, then here’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“Shallan is correct. However unethical the original choice, all that stands before us now are two options: a continuation of the status quo, or a Desolation.” From her tone, it was obvious which of the two Jasnah preferred.

Maybe a Desolation wouldn’t be so bad after all. Kaladin managed to keep that thought inside, but only barely. She couldn’t take any more of this. Part of her wanted to rage, to yell, but years of ignoring impulses like that made shutting them down easier. Instead, Kaladin just pulled away from Shallan’s grasp and got up off the bed. “We should continue this conversation another time.”

Before anyone could say a word against it, Kaladin went to the door, taking back the Stormlight that held it closed. Her long legs helped her cross the companionway quickly into the cabin she was staying in, where a swipe of her hand closed the door mid-stride. She used too much force, accidentally slamming it with a raucous sound. That probably made Shallan jump... she considered, frustration and shame mixing with all the other emotions boiling inside of her.

Everywhere she stepped, a bloody pool of angerspren followed.

Syl came in not long after from under the door, where she found Kaladin on the bed, arms folded in front of her face, turned towards at the ceiling. “Kaladin?”

“How are we supposed to act with honor, Syl?” Kaladin asked her. “If I help Jasnah, I’m protecting the same system that crushed Tien, that left Esu without a finger, that has been killing people like me longer than I can imagine. And if I protect the Parshendi, the parshman? If I try to help them? I’m standing against the only people I have left.”

The honorspren landed on the pillow beside Kaladin, her blue-white form leaving no impression in the material below her. “I don’t know. It feels like I should have an answer, or some advice, or...” Syl sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“What do we do?” Was her voice really that quiet? Or was it simply far-away, distant to her own senses as she felt herself spiral over the dilemma before her?

“We think about it, silly. And, as much as it can be hard to make those dummies get it, we talk to them.”

Kaladin shook her head. “They’re never going to understand.”

“Maybe not, but if you don’t try? How can they?” Syl poked Kaladin on the cheek. “None of the Surges let people read minds.”

“Too bad. Maybe then, someone else could figure out what’s wrong with me.”

The two lay there together, sharing the quiet, as Kaladin slowly recovered.

Chapter Text

-3-

Red

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

Were Danahui to compose a ballad about herself, a task self-aggrandizing beyond even her preferences, she would have many options on when exactly to start such a tale.

It would be tempting to go to the true beginning, the start of her very life, but this choice would also be too cliche. Not to mention, so much fluff! No, no, no, that is not the proper place to begin.

Perhaps she could dig further, elucidate the lives that made her own. After all, her parents had quite the story of their own. Lovers of two lands, high and low, a study in contrasts and yet united in heart. But no, that would not do either.

The story of Dana the Mad truly begins with a young girl, tall and gangly for all she's survived eight Weepings, entering a small Veden town of whose name she would forget within the year.

This detail, this town? It is unimportant. The size of it, how it was protected from the highstorms, which lighteyed lord ruled it, none of these things matter.

What is important is the girl.

It has been mentioned she is tall for her age, but it is only in that way she truly resembles the woman she would one day become. Her build is so narrow, so thin, almost dainty. Her fingers, they are smooth, except in the few places where her practice has already borne fruit, the hints of her lifelong skill and passion. There is no strength in her arms, there is no spring in her step, there is no smile on her face.

Ah, wait, there is one other point of continuity, one trait that will follow her no matter where she travels, unmistakable and unavoidable.

The red.

Her hair, it is like her mother and father’s, red and full and, at this point, trimmed down to the bottom of her neck. But the angle, the slope, of her hairline, it seems off, should anyone pay too much attention to the waif. Uneven, as though an unskilled hand had done the work. Bunching up the lot with one hand, taking sheers to it all with the other.

There is also the matter of the girl’s clothing. Dull and uninteresting, the shirt too large by half, the trousers patched and frayed. Darkeyed clothing, brown as the stone she was walking on. And the shoes, oh the shoes, already they were starting to fall apart from the walk she had taken them on.

Slung over one shoulder, she carried a case. Inside, it held the child’s livelihood.

Whether or not she was aware of it that day, Danahui has well forgotten, but that girl was going to live or die by what she carried.

Eventually, as night began to fall, and all good folk retreated to the comfort of their homes, this girl entered the outskirts. She earned a few looks, but there was a highstorm on the way, or so the wise among them said. She would find shelter, they were sure of it, and thus she was no concern of theirs.

This thing, it was true. For she approached the Devotary of Sincerity, the only house of Vorinism this small town had, and knocked on the door.

Now, you may be wondering, 'Danahui, you beautiful creature, why do you pretend? You have told us this is your story, so this girl must be you!'

It is an excellent question, thank you for asking it.

What you must understand, is that this girl? She was not Danahui. This was a nameless girl, a no-thing. She had tossed aside the name she was born to, ripped it to shreds like an axehound with a delicious cremling. This, she did for her own safety, you see. One day, she would carefully stitch the name back together with needle and thread, and so it could be worn proudly once more.

But this was not that day.

On this day, she knew she had to be someone else, someone new. The name, she had already decided. It was hers, after a fashion, but it was one she had not worn, had not claimed. Ripe for the taking, in a way.

A name, however, is only a small piece of the whole, and the rest she had to build. What are musicians like? she wondered to herself, as she had already decided that is what she must be. Bright and loud and full of cheer, was her answer, borne from what little she knew in the life she’d lost.

Of course, there was one musician who was not that way, who was instead stern and serious and practical to a fault, and she was the one this girl knew best. But the girl could not be her, could not even attempt an emulation.

To do this would be to destroy what was left of her, for the pain would not be something she could take.

I am Unkalaki, the girl also considered, doing her best to remember the language, the accent, the way of speaking. This was a harder task, her primary source had so often hid the signs of her nature. Yet, the girl would do her best. And with time, and practice, she would craft her speech as her father would carve a block of wood into a beautiful statue.

Despite not feeling an ounce of joy in her heart, despite being clawed at by hunger and aches and some new terrible agony she would someday know as loss, the girl grinned from ear to ear as the ardent emerged from inside the devotary.

“Hello! I am Danahui, from the peaks. Could I trade for shelter here, and maybe some food? All I am having is a song.”

And so the girl was taken in, fed, warmed, saved from the storm, and she became Danahui.

She lovingly pulled her instrument from her case, tightened the strings all by herself, and drew her bow across them.

Young Danahui put her all into that song, and it was good. Well, no, perhaps not ‘good’, but it had energy and life and it awoke the very feelings she was trying to evoke. It was, as some may say, a start.

This was a good evening, all things considered.

She did not stay for long, though. The ardent was kind, and he worried for her, but in truth Danahui had greater concerns than her basic bodily needs.

This girl, she had a whitespine on her trail, and she would not stop running.

Not for anything, and not for anyone.

Chapter Text

-4-

Cheer and Delight

“I hope my letter finds you in good health, gemheart. It would bring me no end of sadness to hear that you’re being worked ragged again. We all have our limits, and you have a history of pushing past yours. Though, I suppose that’s part of why I love you so. That need to please, that seemingly endless reserve of stamina. But, even you have to know, it really isn’t endless, love. Be honest in your reply, and if you’re being given too much to do, I’ll have My Lady send some pointed notes to the offender.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Nesh to Klyns, a master-servant serving the Palanaeum in Kharbranth. Sent Chachishah 1171, collected and copied after delivery

“...and then, Nu Ralik undid the evils worked by his jealous brother, asking nothing of the fisherman but that he think of his fellow man kindly, and that he enjoy each day as it came,” Danahui explained patiently, speaking slowly and clearly as she told the story. “Some say, it is that very man who first forsook rock for water, and lived in Purelake for the rest of his life.”

“Glrrbll,” Oroden replied, looking up at her and letting out a sound that involved much saliva, some of which began to dribble down his face.

Reaching down a calloused finger, Danahui brushed the drool away, then refocused her eyes on the path before them. Guiding a chull did not require her full attention, but it was important not to let her focus dry up. If she were, it would be all too easy for the chull to drift in the wrong direction. This was to be especially watched out for with how heavy Danahui’s eyelids felt, how difficult it was with each blink to not simply keep her eyes closed.

She sat on the front bench of the wagon, child in her lap, reed in her hand long enough to reach up and poke Varum in the antennae. He was not a very bright animal, her chull, but he worked hard and he appreciated the care Danahui gave him. She loved the creature, and she hoped he felt some glimmer of the same emotion to her in turn, no matter what her silly sisters told her.

Behind her, in the bed of the wagon, her other two charges sat, side by side, watching the scenery pass them by, such that it was. Danahui was not entirely sure, but they may have been holding hands.

To one side, there was a river, winding and deeper than one might expect at first glance. On the other, a vast expanse of rock, populated by the occasional rockbuds and trees, winding hills and short cliffs. They had passed a few communities sheltered in such protection since leaving Hearthstone, ignoring them to follow the water to their next landmark.

“We appreciate you looking after Oroden,” Hesina said, her mirthful voice as beautiful as a song drifting out from the Tranquiline Halls themselves, “you don’t need to entertain him too.”

Lirin let out a huff, but when he spoke, he sounded faintly amused. “He’s not going to remember those stories you keep telling him. His brain hasn’t developed enough.” He says this with much confidence. Considering his occupation, I am seeing why.

“Maybe so!” Danahui admitted. “But if this is case, it is still good to be telling them again. The thing about stories, you must understand, is that repetition is key! Whether the words flow with music to guide them or are left to fend for themselves, speaking it all aloud again and again is the best way to be remembering clearly!”

There was more to it than just that, of course. Having this baby on her lap, telling him stories as they crossed the countryside, it kept her alert and awake. Even better, it made Danahui’s dear little sister sing, and it was always nice to hear her inner melodies strumming with cheer and delight. It made Danahui smile to know that, even if it was not yet the time for the Master-servant to take the reins herself, she could still enjoy what made her happiest through Danahui herself.

And she knew, when the time came for their roles to be reversed, that the Master-servant would do the same for Danahui. So kind, she was, so considerate. Danahui did not play favorites with her sisters, for to do so would be like playing breakneck with broken glass, but she was fond of Nesh beyond her ability to measure.

“You keep mentioning music,” Lirin brought up, “and yet we’ve yet to hear a note from you.” His suspicion of her had not dimmed a mark in the days since they’d departed his town, though like an infused sphere, he frequently kept it hidden, only drawing it out when the light could prove of use.

Danahui let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “You must have quite the impression of how good Danahui must be, if you think she can play while leading wagon! Ha!! Danahui is skilled, this is true, but when it is coming to her instrument of choice, it takes both hands to perform, he demands nothing less.” There were other instruments with which she was proficient that could be handled in such a situation, but she had neither a drum nor a flute on her person.

“What about when we camp for the night? You could grace us with a song then,” Hesina suggested.

“Ah, perhaps, but it is not always such a good idea to fill the night with song when a low profile is what you are seeking. It has been so difficult to fight the urge, sitting awake as the moons pass above me, forcing my fingers to still as I am watching for danger.” She shook her head.

Lirin began to sputter. “You haven’t been sleeping?!” He sounded outraged, offended, even. “When was the last time you slept?”

After considering the question properly, Danahui gave a truthful reply. “Two and a half days ago, shortly before I was coming to get you both.”

“That can’t be healthy,” Hesina muttered, concern in her tone.

“It isn’t!” Lirin stood up, walking to the front of the cart and grabbing Danahui by a well-muscled shoulder. “You need to rest! I don’t care what haste you think is required for this journey or what precautions you feel the need to enforce, your sleep is non-negotiable.” They met gazes, and she could see in his dark eyes how serious he was about this. “Hesina knows how to guide a chull. I’ll watch Oroden.”

Danahui pursed her lips. “Are you sure? Danahui is quite capable of continuing without rest if this is needed.” Just saying those words only made her feel the weight of her fatigue all the more. Still, she meant it. She could bear it longer. I’ve done worse.

“You rest. Surgeon’s orders.”

“Very well.” Rising from her place, she handed the babe off to Lirin while Hesina took her spot and her reed. As the tool was passed along, Danahui held onto the older woman’s hand, stopping her for a moment. “Please, take care with Varum. He is extra sensitive on his right antennae.”

With a smile that reminded Danahui starkly of the first rays of sun as the light crested the horizon, Hesina told her, “Of course. Now please, take care of yourself for just a few hours.”

“If you demand, it shall be.” Letting go, Danahui stepped backward, sitting with her back resting the trunk containing the belongings of her and her sisters, and settled into a swift and silent sleep.

A gentle push against her arm woke Danahui. “We’re making camp.”

It took Danahui a moment to place the owner of the voice as she stretched and rose. Lirin had not spoken to her so softly before. Gone was the ire she’d earned by pushing herself too hard, replaced with... paternalism, perhaps.

A difficult thing for Danahui to recognize, after so long without an example of it in her life.

As she blinked her eyes open, seeing the soft tones of sunset painting their mark on the world around her, Danahui briefly saw someone else where Lirin stood. A taller man, with a full head of red hair and a short beard to match, an overflowing warmth to his eyes and a loving smile curving his lips.

But no, it was not him. Instead, it was the frowning surgeon who Danahui had sworn to protect. “You were correct, the rest was needed.” Danahui tried to ignore the sharp pain in her heart, giving Lirin a smile and helping him set up camp for the night while Hesina watched their child. She distracted herself from thoughts of her father by checking on Varum, making sure he had enough to eat.

Years of practice made it easy for Danahui to set herself into the rhythm of such tasks, even if her sisters were not quite as distracted. Still, at least their sad songs were quiet ones, a somber harmony as Danahui set up the campfire and prepared a simple meal and laid out the bedding in the wagon and ate the food and...

...and eventually, she sat before the fire, looking into its depths, a bowl of stewed tallew polished clean in her hand, and she had nothing left to do.

Well, this meant there was time for more pleasant things. Turning her attention to Hesina, Danahui bestowed upon the other woman a respectful grin and asked, “So, how is it you are knowing the ways to be guiding a chull? Perhaps my finely tuned senses are mistaken, but I am smelling a story behind this thing.”

“It’s not that hard to learn,” Hesina said, leaning back with her hands behind her, Lirin’s arm around her shoulder, and Oroden swaddled in her lap. “But, considering it’s how Lirin and I met, I can’t deny that it qualifies as a story.”

Lirin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t.” The surgeon spoke with the exasperation that came from inevitability. He knew that what had started could not be stopped.

As Danahui nodded fervently, saying, “Please do,” a few low notes of suggestion came to her from one corner of her mind. Seeing nothing wrong with the idea, Danahui let another share in command of the body. She could feel as her arms moved to remove the case from her back and retrieve what it contained, though it was not Danahui, but one of her sisters, who made the movements.

Hesina raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were worried about playing at night?”

“It is barely night,” Danahui told her, “and I am not going to be truly playing. Consider this... practice. Just as repeating stories to your son helped further furrow words in my mind, regular playing is good for keeping skills just as sharp.” Though, we are already quite good, and there is truly no need to practice as often as you insist, Danahui thought, pointedly.

There’s no such thing as too much practice, her sister shot back, her mental voice just as bitter and low as it was when she spoke with their throat.

Even when she was just in control of their arms, there was a difference to how the Mercenary did things. Danahui’s every movement was a flourish, a show. It was difficult, if not outright impossible, for her to stop being so over-the-top.

This sister was more economical, practical. She worked quickly and decisively, removing the instrument from the case and retrieving her preferred set of strings from a pocket before working to string and tune the lunui.

It was hand-carved, shaped from a block of wood, though she knew not what type of tree it had come from. From end to end, it was nearly as long as her arm, and the base was about as large as an axehound pup. The bulk of it was a hollow chamber, a hole in the front, while a flat expanse of thin wood stood out on one side.

At the end of the neck, there were a set of metal pegs, meant for properly tuning the strings. Three of the four were of the same dark metal, likely some sort of iron or pewter, Danahui didn’t know, but the fourth was unique, of a pale yellow hue. It was a lovely distinguishing mark, something Danahui could use to separate the instrument from any of its like in all the world. The idea of losing this instrument brought terror to them all, most especially the Lady, whose pulses and waves grew sharp and panicked at the thought.

While Danahui preferred to use strings made of gut, thicker and meant to be played with a bow, she felt as her hands picked out thin metal wires, tuning them tightly. Her fingers did a few experimental strums before they began their dance, plucking and striking and pressing on the strings, going from song to song so she could repeat them until her sister was able to play them without error.

Even if it was simply practice, the Mercenary’s playing still drew musicspren, spinning see-through ribbons which danced around her fingers as she played.

You should be using one of the picks, Danahui thought to her sister, for what felt like the ten-thousandth time.

She received a mental bark of a laugh. Ha! No. It feels better the way I do it.

It was almost enough to make Danahui frown. Playing like this is part of why their fingers bore such callouses! It was unprofessional. But, she knew the Mercenary would do it anyway. Part of her wondered if half of the reason she persisted in the practice was merely to spite Danahui.

Leaving her sister to continue practicing, Danahui properly focused her attention on the outside world once more, on the back and forth between Hesina and Lirin, as the husband finally agreed that it was okay for Danahui to hear how they met.

“I grew up in a city called Tomat, and as long as I can remember, my father was insistent that I stick to more ‘feminine' pursuits.” Hesina began. “The more he pushed, the further I pulled. Instead of focusing on art or scholarship or anything like that, I slipped from his grasp whenever I could, escaping to the streets of the city.”

Seemingly unable to help himself, Lirin muttered something under his breath which Danahui could not entirely catch, but sounded something like, ‘Storming bastard’.

While the Mercenary stumbled for the fourth time on the bridge section from Mari’s Two Lovers, mentally cursing up a storm of Storming Shalash’s saggy fucking tits, Danahui nodded along to Hesina and told her, “I was recently visiting Tomat! It is lovely city.” Lovelier still were the sights meant only for her and her sisters, the citylord's daughter and all she shared with them. For a moment, all four sisters were unified, a chorus of sighs, at the thought of the beautiful lady they’d left behind so they could take on Jasnah’s assignment.

Hesina’s dark eyes went alight with interest. “Oh? Well, I hope my father didn’t darken your doorstep during your visit.”

“He’s not as dangerous as he pretends,” Lirin added, “but it’s better for your health to avoid him.”

Curious, Danahui considered. Something to ponder, or better yet, to leave to the Lady to chew on. “So, you were learning to lead wagons in the streets of Tomat?” she prodded, interested to hear where this story went next.

You’d listen to Hesina read a cookbook and call it fine art. The Mercenary taunted, before finally going through the section of the song without a single note falling out of place. Finally! Still, that took too long. I’ll run through it a few more times.

From there, Hesina spun her simple tale. While she clearly took pains to hide it, Hesina had grown up in privilege, and she had done everything she could to escape that very thing. Chull guiding was only one of a myriad of skills she learned before literally running into a young man, a surgeon’s apprentice, while out running deliveries.

It was a match unwanted by Hesina’s parents, of course, and when keeping their time together a secret failed, Lirin confronted her father and made a plea.

None of this was exactly novel. Danahui had heard similar stories half a dozen times, though she could sense a more interesting twist was being talked around, buried beneath suggestions and holes in the narrative.

Still, it was the details that made it new, and it was the way Hesina told the tale that captured her attention. There was something carefree about this woman, a mother of two, far into the prime of her life, and clearly the survivor of much hardship. Perhaps Danahui was wrong, but it seemed as though her smile came as easily to her as breathing, and it was difficult for her to press ill will towards those who may deserve it. Even as she talked of her father forbidding her relationship, demeaning Lirin, disparaging the things that made Hesina happy, she also spoke of him with fondness. The same could not be true of her husband, and more than once as Hesina kindly talked around the mistreatment she received, Lirin and Danahui met eyes with shared feelings of consternation towards this faraway man between them.

What would it be like, Danahui had to wonder, to be this forgiving? Though Danahui wore a smile, she also wore a smile, the same as she may put on her trousers or her vest. It was well-practiced, and it often felt genuine, but it was never without effort.

Why are you obsessing over this? Her sister prodded. She’s her and you’re you. You can’t be her any more than you can be me.

True, Danahui agreed, but it is not a thing I can be helping. As you say, I am me. Dana the Mad was a woman who pondered the why’s and the how’s and the what if’s. She looked into people’s eyes as if they were windows, and she could not help but imagine herself on the other side, attempting to piece together what the view would was like.

Once the story wrapped up, with Hesina settling into the town of Lirin’s birth to make a home and start a family, she had a question for Danahui. “What is that instrument? It looks a little like a guet, but the shape isn’t quite the same.”

“Excellent question!” Looking down at her hands, still moving without her say so as her sister strummed out a seemingly simple but damnedly complex melody she’d heard a few years before, Danahui regarded her instrument, their instrument, with pride. “This is a lunui. It is a thing of my people, of the Peaks. Very versatile. Can be strung like am Alethi guet or a Veden violoiv or a dozen other instruments.”

Getting out a pair of spectacles, Lirin leaned closer, careful not to disturb his son, and regarded the instrument more carefully. “I see. Those pegs can be moved, can’t they? You can control the length of the strings, the type you use, how tightly you tune them.” He nodded, before meeting Danahui’s eyes. “Where did you get it?”

“It is family heirloom,” Danahui told him, which was true. “Passed, from mother to daughter, for many generations,” she continued, which wasn't. The Mercenary stopped playing, fingers pausing on the strings. No words came from her to Danahui, only a feeling of shared grief.

“Something for you to pass on to your daughter someday,” Hesina said, her eyes on her son as she spoke.

The words hurt to hear, and Danahui opened her mouth to share without thinking.

Discordant notes, a warning sound from the Lady, distressed and unhappy.

Danahui considered ignoring her, and entrusting this particular truth with her charges then and there. But... no. It had been only a few days, and while she doubted either would think less of her for the state of her birth, the Lady’s emotions were joined by a quiet strumming from the Master-servant.

And so, Danahui kept up her smile, and instead told the couple an outlandish tale of a trip she took to Bavland and the many hijinks that ensued. At least half of the story was true, and all of it was entertaining.

As they enjoyed the evening, Danahui still felt her hands, entirely outside her control, practicing their craft with dogged determination. Co-fronting with a sister was always odd, but it felt easiest with the Mercenary. They knew where the other’s boundaries were, their wires never getting crossed.

It was a lovely time, as Danahui shared a fire with a family that was hers to protect, her sister there with her, filling the night with her somber songs.

The only thing that could have made it better was a visit from her strange friend once the others had all fallen asleep, but in this way Danahui was not as lucky as she could have been. She spent her watch alone, the fire burned out, her lunui packed away.

Danahui still ached for a performance, but it would not be too long before they crossed into new territory, and from there, reached a venue worthy of her skills.

Chapter Text

-5-

Silent and Unaware

“Been a while. Haven’t been sure what to say. Storm it, you know I’m not good with words, and everything in this letter is shit you already know. I love you. I miss you. I want to laugh at your stupid fucking jokes again. Sometimes I wake up and expect to see you lying there next to me.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Karusar to Beynith, a mercenary serving with the group “Nakku’s Nails”. Sent Nanaches 1171, original collected without notice

“Mmmmm...”

Shallan’s spren had begun to speak, which was excellent news.

If only he would say something intelligible. “Pattern? Are you... okay? You’ve been spinning on the floor for hours.” It felt just as odd to describe the raised symbol on the ground twisting in place as ‘spinning’ as it did to talk to one of the spren who had been chasing her in drawings for the better part of two weeks.

Pattern hummed, before buzzing out a short reply. “Okaaay?” He elongated the second syllable of the word, as though playing with the sound itself. “Meaning?”

“It means... oh drat, I don’t know. Are you distressed? Why are you spinning? Is there anything I can do to help you?” Shallan lay on the bed she and Kaladin shared, flat on her stomach, as she looked down at Pattern.

At least she got a quick response this time. “Many questions...” This time, there was an obvious tone of panic, as though he had been overwhelmed by what Shallan asked.

Doesn’t that feel familiar... Shallan did her best not to think back of the days when the wrong topic of conversation would leave her silent and unfocused for far too long. “How am I going to learn anything at this rate?” It felt a little rude to voice the question where her subject could hear, but if Pattern had any qualms with being discussed in such a way, he didn’t make that clear.

“I can help!” came a cheerful voice in the same moment that Shallan’s field of vision became suddenly overwhelmed with blue-white light.

It was one thing to know that Kaladin’s honorspren could fly around invisibly, choosing who could and could not see her as fit her whims, and it was another thing entirely for what appeared to be empty air in front of Shallan’s face to actually contain a small woman with a terrible sense of humor and an infinite curiosity.

Shallan made a sound that was half-squeak, half-scream, reeling backwards across her bed before forcing herself to stop before she bumped her head into the wall behind her. Taking careful breaths, she focused on Syl, who had shown up in a humanoid shape and was wearing a light dress that disappeared to mist near her knees. “Y-you can?”

“Sure!” In a twirling motion, Syl spun through the air, briefly becoming a ribbon of light, before landing in the air near Shallan’s face. “You’re trying to study your Cryptic, right? Well, I’ve been bonded to Kaladin for years now, so I can tell you why that’s not going so well!”

I’m not entirely sure how trustworthy a source she is, but... What else was she to do? Jasnah had asked her to better understand her spren, and direct exposure to the creature wasn’t doing much thus far. “Thank you, Syl. To start with, what is a ‘Cryptic’ exactly?” She’d heard the term before from Syl, but it wasn’t immediately obvious what the term represented. Was that Pattern’s species? Culture? Occupation?

The possibilities as they applied to a spren felt preposterous, but she couldn’t discount any of them. At the moment, Pattern was barely coherent, but when he’d first appeared in her sketches, in the time before she’d first Soulcast, Pattern had been far more humanoid.

He and the others with him had also been so mind-numbingly terrifying that they’d given Shallan multiple panic attacks, all of which she'd hidden from those close to her.

Because no one needed to know, Shallan told herself firmly. At the time, I would have simply sounded mad. Now the cause is clear and there’s nothing more to worry over and thus no reason to let slip such embarrassing lapses in decorum. As with the matter of Jasnah’s Soulcaster, Shallan saw no point in raising the issue if all it would do was complicate her life further.

Syl pondered her first question, evidently unaware of Shallan’s brief internal tangent, tapping a finger on her translucent blue-white chin. Is that a small safehand glove on Syl’s left hand? Or am I simply seeing what I expect? “Soooo... I’m an honorspren, right?” Shallan nodded, though she still had questions regarding that statement. “Well, Cryptics are liespren.”

A buzzing sound arose from the floor nearby. Evidently, Pattern had drawn closer as the conversation began to revolve around him. “Mmm... noooo...” Once again, Pattern sounded distressed. With an almost sluggish motion, the raised pattern of the wood, ever-changing and shifting, moved up onto the post of the bed, spiraling up until he slid across the surface of the sheets near Shallan. “No...”

In a flurry of movement, Syl flew down to stand on the bed in front of Pattern. For reasons Shallan could not fathom, he was no longer avoiding her direct attention. “No, what? Like, ‘No, that’s not true?’ Or ‘No, don’t tell Shallan that even though it’s true?’ Ooh, or maybe, ‘No, I wish I was an honorspren too!’” The spren’s hands rested on her hips as she leaned down at a sharp angle. It was quite the odd sight, like a woman staring down into a rippling pool of water and talking to it.

“Mmm... not a liespren.” That point made, Pattern shifted away from Syl and closer to Shallan, brushing against her leg.

It felt distinctly strange, a hint of a nudge with no true force behind it, but it was also strangely cute. Shallan was reminded sharply of one of her older brother’s axehound pups, seeking protection from someone it trusted.

They tried to coach further replies from Pattern, but he simply hummed and buzzed and said nothing else that was intelligible.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Syl said, flying back up to be level with Shallan’s eyes. She mimed sitting on a chair in mid-air, crossing one leg over another in a way that would have exposed things were she a human, but which the faded mist of her hem hid. “He’s just really new at this.”

“New at... what, exactly?” Shallan asked.

Syl gestured broadly at the ship's cabin around her. “Your world! I’ve been here for a while now, which is why I’m an expert at it, but Pattern hasn't, so he isn’t!”

Remembering what little tidbits she’d gotten from Jasnah on the topic thus far, Shallan considered that. “Then you’re both from... what was it... Shadesmar?” She preferred not to think of that sea of glass beads, fascinating though it may be.

“Yep! We live there, but we have to come into this world to make a bond with someone. Without a bond, we can’t really think on this side of things, and even once it forms, it takes a while to get our minds back.” Syl’s cheerful tone began to somber on this point, her expression growing cloudy.

That explained how Pattern was acting, then. It was also something to ponder and research further, of course, but a good starting place nonetheless. Shallan was about to prod for more details, but it was at that moment that the door opened and Kaladin stalked in. At least there are no angerspren at her heels this time?

Without a word, she threw off her boots and fell onto the bed next to Shallan, face buried in a pillow. Kaladin's long dark hair splayed out around her, creating a sea of black waves in every direction.

After a moment of hesitation, Shallan extended her freehand, rubbing the small of Kaladin’s back in small circles. “I take it the conversation with Adolin didn’t go well?”

“It was fine,” came Kaladin’s response, muffled by the pillow. “We talked about dueling, Adolin shared some tips, it was nice.”

Shallan frowned. “Well, I may be entirely misreading your tone, but the grunts you’re using sound rather dour. So, either it didn’t go as well as you’re saying, or something else happened to spoil your mood.” It was hard not to fret. Kaladin had been so excited about learning to fight...

Turning her face so that her mouth was no longer obstructed, one bright blue eye looking up to meet Shallan’s gaze, Kaladin spoke more softly now. “They can’t... I thought, maybe even with their injuries, they could show me how to start. But they can’t. We tried...” Shamespren fell upon Kaladin in a light shower of red and white petals, and she hid her face once more. “I embarrassed them. They laughed it off, but the sailors are going to talk. Storms, I felt so stupid.”

“Ah, well something is clearly wrong with your feelings then, as you are anything but.” Shallan embraced her partner in a hug, and kissed the back of her head. Then, feeling the magnitude of the problem required a more thorough solution, she pressed her lips to the same place several more times in quick succession.

Syl giggled before flying off towards a section of the wall where Pattern had retreated, evidently willing to give them space while they were having a moment.

The two women lay on the bed, one holding onto the other, sharing the silence.

It was no surprise as to who eventually broke it. “Did Jasnah have...?”

Kaladin twisted beneath her, turning until she lay on her back so she could look up into Shallan’s face with a stormy expression. “No. Apparently, civil war broke out in Jah Keved, and the roads aren't safe. Seems likely whoever the princess sent hasn’t reached your family’s estate yet.”

Or they have, and something terrible has befallen them all. Tragedy came part and parcel with her home, after all.

“It will be fine,” Shallan told Kaladin, and herself. “What about your parents?” After all, only one of them had directly spurned royalty.

Kaladin closed her eyes and took a long breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth. “Spanreed conversation came in this morning. They’re making good progress, no one is hurt. Apparently they’ll reach Danidan soon, wherever that is.” Her lips twisted into a severe frown. “Jasnah still won’t tell me anything about who is protecting them.”

Ah yes, because I am well aware of who has been sent to collect my brothers. She at least had the good sense to shove the comment down instead of sharing it. “I suppose we’ll find out together once we reach the Plains.”

Silence replaced conversation once more.

This time, Shallan began to grow nervous. What can I say to help? Should I try and make a joke? Talk about her introducing me to her parents? She winced at the very idea of it. No, no, that is a terrible idea.

Perhaps, we should just enjoy the silence? That's a fairly romantic idea, is it not? some part of her suggested.

Kaladin opened her eyes once more, and it didn’t take a particularly insightful person to see the exhaustion and worry in her eyes. Oh, yes, of course, because she’s be doing so wonderfully on her own, leaving her to fester in whatever nonsense her mind is simmering in is a truly spectacular idea, me.

The inner conflict was frustrating. Why was being in a relationship so storming difficult? She liked Kaladin, Kaladin liked her, that should be enough!

But no, Shallan had chosen to date the most gloomy, thick-headed, impossible surgeon in all of the Vorin Kingdoms. She couldn’t help thinking back to the meeting in Jasnah’s cabin, the way Kaladin had stormed out, the emotion in her voice as she spoke up for...

Shallan shook her head. No. I won’t talk to her about that. Another memory that was best left to sleep in darkness, unwoken and unanswered.

“What if my parents don’t accept me?” Kaladin asked.

There was something raw in her voice, and it took Shallan a moment to spot the tears in her eyes. She acted without thinking, hugging Kaladin tightly once more and burying her face into the woman’s chest. “They will,” she said, voice full of unearned confidence.

Kaladin returned the embrace, holding onto Shallan. “You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know they won’t,” Shallan countered. “Everything you have shared about them indicates, to me, that the two are positively overflowing with familial love. Tell me, have you been greatly exaggerating their kindness? If so, I would not blame you in the slightest, and I will stand by you whatever the stormwall brings. If not, they will be happy to see their daughter.”

The surgeon snorted, but Shallan had known Kaladin long enough to tell this was an ‘amused’ snort, and not an ‘angry’ snort or a ‘confused’ snort. Perhaps she could begin to properly index them all, in the name of scholarship.

“Now then, with that settled,” Shallan said, nestling her head into the most comfortable position possible, “I am going to fall asleep.” A smile curling her lips, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body, as though actually attempting to doze off. “After all, my head has found its way onto the softest pillows on the ship.”

“It just ‘found its way’ there?” Kaladin asked, skepticism in her voice.

After a moment of faux consideration, Shallan nodded. “Yes.”

She was overselling the softness of Kaladin’s chest, but even so, it truly was so comfortable that Shallan felt herself relax muscles she hadn't realized she'd been tensing. Whether what she felt was entirely the work of years of that root substance or if she'd gotten a boost from the strange ‘Stormlight healing’ phenomena, Shallan wasn’t sure. But no matter the source, she was certainly more robust in this category than Shallan herself.

Of course, considering my own size, the same could likely be said of many girls barely past their fourteenth Weeping, Shallan admitted to herself bitterly.

Regardless, it felt nice being held this way, being cared for by someone she trusted so deeply.

Shallan stopped thinking, focusing simply on the present moment, and ignored the memories that had begun to batter their way to the forefront of her mind.

They weren’t important. Everything was going to be fine.

Chapter Text

-6-

Sloppy Sipping

“...signs of being followed. My sister insists on playing a show, and I haven’t...”

—Excerpt from a spanreed conversation, only legible fragment, found partially burned in campfire, discovered Tanatahan 1173

Near the center of Alethkar and on the border between two neighboring princedoms, Danidan required a robust professional stable for chulls and even the occasional horses.

A chorus of insistent music inside of her head told Danahui that the people who worked here were professionals, this was their job, and there was no need to be doing what she was still doing. “I will say this again,” Danahui explained to the stablehand who was taking her chull and the trunks he carried. “Varum does not like rockbuds. Do not try to feed him these things. Grass and shrubbery, those he prefers.”

She was not intimidating the poor man, Danahui would never do that, but she was very intent on getting this into the man’s skull.

For the fourth time now, she got a nod and a, “Yes, citizen.”

After looking into his dark blue eyes, Danahui gave a curt nod, and let him lead Varum away.

“How long have you had him?” Hesina asked. She was carrying two packs, filled with essentials for their night’s stay in the town, while her husband held Oroden. Danahui, of course, insisted on shouldering her own things. Heavy was the bag that sat opposite her lunui case, as it had to contain everything they couldn’t risk being stolen.

Danahui sighed. “Three weeks.” She could remember fondly picking him out, how friendly and social he’d been from the moment she'd first fed him from her very hand.

They began walking into the town, passing by people moving to and fro, but even at midday, this was not a bustling metropolis. “You have a heart as large as your chest,” Hesina observed, full lips curled into a radiant smile. “How long until you’re just as endeared to us as you are to your chull?”

“What makes you think you aren't?” Eyes sparkling with interest, Danahui leaned in closer as they walked side-by-side. “You are correct, I am bursting with love and care. How can I do anything less? There is so much to love in this life, and we are never knowing when the song is ending.”

Her words brought out a somber understanding in Hesina’s eyes, but before she could say anything, Lirin cleared his throat. “Just because life can be cut short doesn’t mean it’s smart to bleed yourself dry.” He didn’t look at Danahui as he spoke, and something about the wistful frustration in his tone made her wonder if perhaps his words were more directed at another, someone who wasn’t present. An old friend? A lost lover?

Pulling closer to her husband, Hesina pointed off towards a nearby building, built directly against the lait that sheltered the town. The sign above the door, bearing a glyph stylized in the shape of a bed, made it obvious just what their business was. “Our residence for the evening?”

“No, no, no,” Danahui said, raising her hands and waving away the idea. “We are to be staying in place that will not charge our weight in spheres.” She turned away, heading off the main thoroughfare of the town into the sidestreets, keeping her eyes peeled for the right name.

It took longer than she would have liked to comb through the town, but finally she found the right building. It was tucked away into the far edge of the community, half-buried in the surrounding craggy rock, requiring a flight of steps to go down to the front door. They needed that extra depth, because otherwise its total height, about two and a half stories, would have made it stand out among the small buildings for tanners and carpenters around it.

Clearly, they were aiming for an innocuous appearance, hard to spot, but there was still a sign visible from the street. Unlike the inn, the shape of the glyph had nothing to do with the trade being practiced in this particular establishment.

“Cups of Cabine?” Lirin guessed, blinking up at it as they stepped down the carved stairs to the front door. “What kind of business is named for one of the Ten Fools?”

Danahui, hand raised up towards the door already, merely grinned. “The best kind.” Then she rapped out a knock with a very specific rhythm. Is too early in the day for them to be open, she guessed, considering just how quiet it was inside. They’d arrived in the early afternoon.

While they waited, Danahui retrieved a vial of dark liquid from a vest pocket, dripping it into her eyes one at a time and enduring the brief period of blindness that came. Strong, this particular mix was, enduring. It was only the third time she’d had to use it around her charges, and she had told them it was medically required.

In a way, this was correct, as using them reduced her chances of dying, the same as it did for her charges.

It took nearly ten minutes and four more sets of knocks to finally get someone to open the door a crack, and when they did, their light tan eyes peaked out, scanning from Hesina, to Lirin with Oroden, to Danahui. “We’re not open.”

“Not even to friends?” Danahui asked, smile stretching from ear to ear.

She watched the person consider, silently weighing unseen factors Danahui could only begin to guess at, before sighing and opening the door all the way. “Storms, I thought you’d arrive at a more reasonable hour.”

As they filed in, they got a better chance to see both the person who’d hid behind the door and the interior of their business.

Quartz, a name they'd chosen rather than one of their parents, wore a safehand glove on their left hand, even though Danahui doubted that society at large would have required it of them had they not made clear exactly how they wished to be seen.

Their hair was typical Alethi black, without a single lock of another shade, and Quartz had grown it out to the tops of their shoulders, wearing it loose and free just as Danahui did with her own red waves. They had a soft face, keen eyes, a prominent nose, and wore the kind of simple but practical dress that so many working people preferred.

It was immediately obvious, even in the dim light afforded to them by what little sunlight found purchase through the building’s front windows, that this was a tavern. That game was well and truly given away by the long bar, with a bench running along the outside, tables and chairs littering the rest of the room, a corner off to one side with a few games of skill, and...

Danahui’s eyes could not help but be drawn towards it.

The stage was nothing truly remarkable. In all her travels, the musician had probably seen a hundred’s hundred of its like. Barely raised off the ground, the wood stained with the alcohol whose scent lingered in the air; the expanse of wood had seen plenty of use since Quartz had set up their establishment.

It may as well have been made from solid emerald with the way it made Danahui’s heart swell, her vision growing blurry with tears.

“So, you’re friends?” came Hesina's husky contralto, one that knocked Danahui out of her contemplation and forced her to turn to regard the gorgeous woman and Quartz.

Danahui exchanged a silent look with the owner, and judging by the pointed signals they were directing at her, Quartz was interested in having Danahui explain this. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Though we are more, to be accurate, friends of friends.”

Quartz coughed. “Friends of friends of friends, more like.” They pointed up the set of stairs on one wall, heading up to a raised walkway that overlooked the stage itself, with doors leading to second story rooms that were not for the clientele to intrude on. “The four of you are staying up there, farthest door down. Make sure you’re up and gone before I lock up in the morning.”

Apparently quite ready to rest somewhere besides in the bed of a wagon or on the flat rock of the wilderness, the married couple hurried up the steps, taking their son with them, and leaving Danahui to discuss things more privately with Quartz.

“The deal is unchanged, yes? One night in the room and meals for us all, in exchange for performance.” All of that, plus anonymity from any potential pursuers. An excellent deal, but such was expected when one knew the proper people. Or perhaps, considering exactly who was harboring the group, the improper people.

“Sure,” Quartz replied, though they didn’t look particularly happy with it. “That said, I’ve got a problem I could use your help with. Do it, and you’ll get free drinks on top of everything else.”

The Lady’s interest was piqued, judging by the rumbling rhythm vibrating through the back of Danahui’s mind, but this was not a thing she was willing to indulge her sister in. “No, no, no, such a payment is not necessary. Danahui prefers not to drench her brain in such spirits.” The point made, Danahui’s sulking sister quit her pleas, though the other two chimed in with a rare agreement between them, strings plucked by finger and pick alike in appreciation for Danahui’s decision. “Tell me what needs to be done, and it shall happen.”

“You sure you want to handle it?” Quartz asked, crossing their arms in front of their narrow chest. They were continuing to put up a solid front, but Danahui could see, whatever this was, it was the true cause of their stress. She nodded firmly, ready to help out a comrade. “Well, from everything I’ve heard of your system, I think Kar—”

“No, no, no. This is our decision to make, please.” Danahui spoke kindly, but firmly. No single person dictated this thing. “Tell us of your problem, and we shall decide how to handle it, and who.”

Quartz sighed. “Of course, of course. Apologies, I just... this storm has been on the horizon for a while now, and if we’re not ready when it strikes, I don’t want to think of how much we’ll lose.” From there, they laid out their problem, and Danahui found herself looking forward to the evening ahead of her with even greater aplomb.

Sometimes, being a good friend came from doing something you would have done for free.

The time had come.

With her lunui properly stringed and a bow in her hand, Danahui strolled out onto the stage, followed closely by a woman with a flute and a man with a drum. Locals named Kienan and Ghet, who had agreed to perform with her.

Danahui had taken the time to freshen up, making sure she looked her part properly. Her purple vest was immaculate, properly bearing her robust arms to the crowd, and her trousers were snug in just the right way to show off the curves of her powerful thighs.

Using an ointment she’d gotten as a gift years ago, Danahui had ensured her long red hair was voluminous, shining in the bar’s torchlight, and while she wore no paint on her lips or other touches of cosmetics upon her face, she had looked in a mirror and confirmed with a toothy grin that she looked hotter than Damnation itself.

Turning her attention to the patrons, Danahui was happy with the audience she found before her. Quartz was tending bar, seeing to a single man sitting at the bench. He looked like a local laborer, and judging by the way he was going through his lavis beer, he was having a rough go of life. His attention slowly shifted to the stage, curiosity sobering him up by a mark.

The closest table to Danahui was held by a couple of women, neither of whom followed traditional Vorin standards for ones with eyes so dark. One had hair so short it was nearly shaved to the pate, with just a strip of black bangs left to hang in front of her face, and wore a masculine outfit and fingerless gloves. Her companion wore a cheap blue havah, blonde and brown hair long and luxurious, a pinned sleeve clasped over her date’s freehand. They both had eyes for Danahui as she took her place, though it seemed as if the more feminine of the two wasn't as interested as her butch companion.

Farther back, a long table held half a dozen people. They had little in common, some young and some old, some men and some women and some both and some neither, some well-to-do and some struggling through life.

But they did share something, aside from a place to sit and watch the show. The same thing they shared with everyone else who frequented this particular bar.

Up above, on the walkway, was the most important person in the audience, a middle-aged darkeyed woman leaning forward on the railing, watching Danahui with rapt attention. Lirin and their son were still in the room, but Hesina at least wanted to see Danahui in her element.

Speaking of... Danahui looked to Quartz, who nodded. It was time.

“Thank you for coming out!” Danahui called out to the room, her Unkalaki accent as smooth and glossy as her hair. Her double entendre earned a smattering of laughs and giggles. “If you were not being aware, you have the pleasure this evening to hear the best musician since the Shadowdays: Dana the Mad!”

Nothing. Everyone stared at her, the atmosphere suddenly thick with tension.

Danahui could not have felt more comfortable. This was where she thrived. Not the road, not the bed, but the stage. “Let's start off with classic, yes? Join in, if you are knowing the words!” Then she turned her head, nodded to her fellow musicians, and they began to play.

A rolling beat from the drummer first, simple but catchy and recognizable. Some in the audience started to clap or stomp to the beat, even before the flutist joined in, the fluttering tones coming quick and hot.

Setting the butt of her lunui to her chin, Danahui added her own melody to the growing swell of sound, starting slow to match the drums, but repeatedly joining the flute for frenetic fits.

Once it was clear to all what song was coming, Danahui began to sing.

The thing about performances like this one, where Danahui worked with people she had just met, with no control over their style or their instruments of choice, a gig thrown together by time and place and chance, was that they forced Danahui to restrict herself.

No songs too difficult for her impromptu bandmates to play. No songs the locals wouldn't know by heart. No songs she or her sisters had written themselves.

Danahui did her best not to be bothered. It was within such bounds, she found, that some of the greatest art was born.

Her first song of the night was largely known in Jah Keved and Alethkar, with a reach so far it stretched past Marabethia.

‘Sloppy Sipping’ was a bawdy number, the type of song men loved to croon together at pretty women, and in Danahui's experience, particularly loved by rude soldiers. It was a veritable buffet of sexual innuendo, a song about flirting with a woman through a veneer of food and drink, with the chorus making clear how much the singer wanted to sip her ale, heady and sweet, until it coated their lips.

Subtle, it was not.

But sung in the right bar, by the right person? The right woman? The meaning, it was quite different.

As she belted out the words and stroked the strings of her instrument with her bow, Danahui made sure to make eye contact where she could. The ladies in the front, a wizened woman at her own table, Hesina up above. The latter may have been blushing, though it was hard to tell at that distance by torchlight.

She didn't stand still, either. Danahui’s body was as much a piece of the performance as the wood in her hands, and she put it to proper work, dancing and skipping around the small stage as best she could, back bending and bowing at the proper times, letting the energy of the music and the audience guide her.

The songs kept coming, and she did her best to tweak each as she saw fit. Soft love ballads got a little extra heat, rousing drinking songs were sobered by a layer of desperation, odes to the Heralds or their Almighty came with a firm tongue in her cheek.

It was a good show.

No, scratch that, it was a great show. I have missed this, Danahui thought to herself as the set ended, breathing heavily as she took a bow, copper skin slick with sweat from all her exertions.

As they performed, they had drawn in the attention of musicspren, as was to be expected. At the height of the show, Danahui herself caught sight nearly ten of them at once, along with a few creationspren, which changed from bows to glasses to vests. She tried to be satisfied with that, tried not to compare this result to those from her past.

There was a part of Danahui, an extremely irrational part of her, that wanted very badly to stay an extra day in the town so she could perform once more, and do better by the metric had made to judge herself by. This feeling, she squashed, and hard. Counter as it may be to the perfectionist artist she was at her core, Danahui was not here to perform, not really. There were more important things to do.

Speaking of which, she thought, turning her attention on the Interlopers, the time has come to be handling the rest of my work.

Over the course of her show, more people had filtered into the bar. Some of them were clearly regulars, greeted with affection by those already there as they found their places among the throng. One of them, he was carried in across the arms of a man Danahui guessed was his partner.

But the others?

They’d all come in together, a collection of men all able-bodied and fit. Wearing concealing clothing, hooded cloaks and overcoats, it wasn’t easy to make out many details from the stage, but in Danahui’s humble opinion, those details simply didn’t matter.

What mattered was the strip of yellow cloth each of them had tied to their right forearms. It is as Quartz said, Danahui thought, the smile on her lips no longer reaching her eyes. Sun Acolytes.

It was a topic for scholars to debate if the Sunmaker obsessed tuma'alki were a cult or a political movement or a not-so-secret society or some combination of the three. All that Danahui cared about was that they were encroaching into a space that they sought to defile. Anyone who looks at Alethi society and goes, ‘Oh dear, this is not nearly aggressive and misogynist enough!’, they are a stain pretending to be a person.

Since they first entered, taking places near the door, the mood of the bar changed. Danahui could read fear in the patron’s faces, the kind that came from experience rather than paranoia.

After putting her instrument back in its case, Danahui stepped off the stage and strode over to the man among them who seemed to be in-charge. Or, if not, at least the man among them was the largest and commanded the most attention.

This man, he moved with a swaggering confidence, and there was nothing in what Danahui could see of his smile that she liked, especially when he directed it at those women seated near the stage.

As she approached, Danahui could feel every set of eyes in the bar center on her and her quarry. “Hello!” she exclaimed, voice booming and full of false exuberance, stopping before the spot on the bench where the man sat.

A few of his fellows took their places further down, while others took chairs at the table nearest the entrance. Eyes glittering with an unwholesome emotion, the man looked Danahui up and down, appraising her openly as though she were a commodity put on display in a marketplace. “Fine show,” he told her, though nothing in his tone made her believe he meant it.

“Yes, it was,” Danahui agreed regardless. “Now then, you and your friends? You should be leaving. This bar, she is not yours.”

The man snorted. “Owner can tell us that himself.”

“They already have,” Danahui said, “The last three times you were coming. Yet, you continue barging through door. Such bad manners.” She tutted at him.

“Bad manners?” He spat on the floor. “We’re good, honest folk, just looking for a place to relax after a hard day. Seems to me, any bartender more interested in serving folks like you is the one with bad manners, girl.” Then, he smiled at her, and she was quite confident he was waiting for her to reply, or pausing to soak in his own ego before continuing his font of foul words.

Perhaps he would ask Danahui to buy his next drink. Perhaps he would ask for something worse.

She never found out.

The nice thing about the Vorin states to the East, if one was to ask Danahui, was that their people, especially their men, did not see violence coming from her until it was too late.

Danahui’s fist crashed into the man’s face hard enough to knock him to the floor, the sound of the impact filling the suddenly hushed bar. Throwing a punch, this was a simple thing, and over the course of her life she had heard many tips on how to do it well. They were good, sometimes, but it certainly helped to be a head and a half taller than the person you punched and strong as a greatshell.

Thank you, dear sister, for keeping us in shape. She received a savage set of low bass notes in response, each note ringing with satisfaction for what Danahui had done. The Lady was just as enthusiastic, but the Master-servant, she was silent.

Before the man could rise, Danahui approached him once more. One of his men, they tried to intercede, but Danahui simply pushed him back, hard, and then started kicking the downed lowlander. He cursed, breath wheezing out past his lips as she did, and Danahui refused to stop, still smiling as she impacted that hard leather of her boot against his ribs again and again and again.

It took perhaps ten kicks before she felt satisfied. She was not sure, and did not count them. What she did count was the number of cracks she heard as they accompanied her impacts, which was three. It will have to do.

Turning her attention from the man of the floor to his fellows, Danahui could see them torn between retaliation and retreat. She gestured to the other occupants of the bar, most of whom had gotten to their feet, ready to help if they had to. It was clear they did not relish such conflict, not the way the Sun Acolytes did, but if this became a brawl, it would be one with two sides.

“Fourth time is charm, yes? Take your man and leave. Do not be coming back.” She turned her away from them, walking up to Quartz and listening to the sound of the men scrambling out, dragging their battered friend with them. “Those free drinks? Give them to her.” Danahui gestured to the woman with the shaved head who’d been sitting near the stage.

That done, she sauntered off, heading towards the stairs. Her work was done, and Danahui was tired and sweaty and in dire need of rest. Even through her thick boots, something about the flash of pain she felt with each step told Danahui that her toes had not emerged from her assault unscathed.

There was only one hurdle on the path towards sleep: Hesina, on the stairs, looking down at her.

“Dana... was that necessary?” The carefree attitude that Danahui had come to expect from Hesina was nowhere to be seen, replaced with the sorts of emotions Danahui preferred not to see written plainly on the face of a beautiful woman. Worry, fear, shock. It seemed as though she had difficulty choosing one, perhaps this was why no spren accompanied her.

Under the assault of those eyes, Danahui felt the distinct pain in her knuckles and foot that came from a thrashing well-delivered, and found they no longer sang so sweetly as they had a moment before.

Shrugging her shoulders, Danahui gave an honest answer. “Yes.” Her accent slipped, and her tone sobered. Better to be honest, Hesina deserved a taste of that. “I have seen this happen, in other cities. When people like those men come? They are trying to take over, to displace those who find refuge here, to claim this place as their own. The only response they will understand is violence. Overwhelming, when possible.” She did not say how good it felt to punch the man, how much her soul cherished each kick. Under the attention of Hesina's gaze, such truths brought a small helping of shame with them.

Hesina considered Danahui's words, before giving a small nod. “I suppose.” Looking in her dark eyes, Danahui could tell that she was still conflicted, but at least she could smile again at Danahui, and gesture invitingly. “Coming up for bed?”

“That is the...” She felt a tug from behind her, and turned to see the butch woman from before, with just the line of bangs above her forehead, looking at Danahui expectantly. After considering the matter, Danahui looked back to Hesina and told her, “Not just yet.”

“Oh, I see,” Hesina replied, tone abundant with amusement. “Go ahead.” Then, leaning closer, she whispered, “Just be sure to wipe her suds from your lips before you come back.”

Then, with a laugh in her throat, Hesina climbed back up the steps, sauntering to their room for the night. Perhaps Danahui should have felt guilty for the way her eyes committed the sight of the older woman's swaying hips to memory, but she did not. Appreciating true beauty could never be a crime.

Danahui took a moment to ponder if the gods toyed with her by placing Hesina in her care, before deciding that if they were, she had no complaints.

Chapter Text

-7-

A Whispered Request

“You sweet talker! ‘Believe in us’, you tell me. Ana, when I burn glyphwards, they’re to you, not some Almighty. Heresy? Maybe, but it's such a sweet sort of blasphemy. You do what you do best, and I’ll work on keeping Daddy’s attention where we want it. Be a Fool for the ages, and come back alive.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Ramora Toma to Ana Kevanar. Sent Ishianach 1173, collected and copied in-transit.

While she would never say it out loud, Kaladin was beginning to think Adolin was a better kisser than her other partner.

Maybe it came from practice? Though, from what they’d said of how lighteyed courting worked, Adolin's immense number of previous dates may have led to shockingly few kisses. Kaladin didn’t know, and she didn’t care to ask.

All that mattered to her was the way their lips felt nice against hers, the grace with which their working arm found the perfect place to rub gentle circles on her back, and her surprise that when they chose to employ their tongue in the task, it proved exceedingly dexterous.

The two weren’t on the Wind’s Pleasure, instead in a cove, staying in a stormshelter rented out by a family of Thaylen handlers. Even through the protection of the rock surrounding the building, Kaladin could hear the highstorm buffeting the landscape, striking with the height of its fury on this eastern edge of the world. Syl was out there, in the rains, but she would return before too long.

Perhaps that’s what had spurred Adolin to pull Kaladin close, to put their conversation on hold so they could revel in the physical. The experience didn’t titillate Kaladin the way it seemed to for her partner, but the sensations were pleasant, and it made her feel...

Safe? Cared for? Seen? All of those, perhaps, and maybe not quite any of them.

Kaladin wasn’t good at putting her emotions into words, but at least for the moment, she didn’t have to. She only had to do what felt right, and relish as Adolin did the same.

Eventually, panting, they both had to pull away, to take a break, as Kaladin settled herself over Adolin as best she could without putting her weight anywhere that would hurt them. “Storms, Kal,” Adolin breathed, their gorgeous blonde and black hair now even more messy than usual, “where did that come from?”

The question surprised her. Hadn’t they been the one pushing forward? she asked herself, but as she looked back on the sequence of events, it became clear her part in them wasn't quite as passive as she’d assumed. Kaladin frowned. “Working through some things, I guess.” Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against Adolin’s cheek and closing her eyes. “I’m sorry about the other day.”

“You’re sorry?” Adolin replied, sounding baffled. “I’m sorry! It’s the one thing I’m any good at, and now I can’t...” Even without being able to see their face, Kaladin knew that Adolin had set their jaw, nostrils flaring, so frustrated with themself for something they had no control over.

“I think you just proved that dueling isn’t the only thing you’re good at,” Kaladin commented, trying not to sound too pleased as she did.

They kissed her cheek. “I know I said it before, but learning to fight from scratch is a gauntlet through Damnation, and it requires a lot of hands-on teaching. Unfortunately, that's not something I’m capable of doing anymore. Maybe, once you get the basics down, I can coach you in some more advanced strategies, but until then...”

Kaladin nodded, the movement so small that she knew Adolin could probably only feel it. She let the silence stretch in the wake of that, and tried not to mire herself in the disappointment once more. They’re doing their best.

“What’s your father like?” Kaladin asked, voice hushed. She wasn’t sure why the question chose that moment to burst from her lips, but it had been simmering in the back of her mind ever since a letter and a mutual confiding about familial expectations.

Adolin sighed. “I mean... he’s the Blackthorn. Famous general, unparalleled warrior, currently receiving magical visions from a storm and obsessed with the Codes of War. I’ve told you all that before, and even if I hadn't, you'd probably heard most of it already.”

Scowling, Kaladin reached up a hand and flicked Adolin on their nose, which elicited a laugh from the royal pain in her ass. “Not what I meant. What’s he like as a person? As your father?”

“Oh.” Adolin took some time to gather their thoughts, and Kaladin didn’t begrudge them needing it. She’d thrown them a difficult question and refused to let them take the easy answer. “He’s been better, the last few years. As infuriating as some of his decisions have been, I think we’ve spent more time together since Gavilar’s death than all the years before it.” Their tone was tinged distinctly bittersweet.

“Where was he?” Kaladin didn’t mean for the words to come out sounding harsh, but she couldn’t help it. Whatever her problems with Lirin, at least he was always there.

When they spoke again, Kaladin could hear it in their voice as they began to go on the defensive. “He’s a general, he had campaigns to fight. Sometimes I was able to join him, but even then, I was just a kid. He made time for me when he could.” Are you telling me that, Kaladin thought, or yourself? “Then, after Mother...” Their voice trailed off, the hand on Kaladin’s back pulling away.

They don’t want to think about this, Kaladin realized. Storms, I'm an idiot. I can dig into how terrible a father the Blackthorn has been another time.

“What was your mother like?” Kaladin asked.

It worked. The question thawed Adolin from their cold mood, and they told Kaladin all about the woman who had raised them.

Evi sounded like an incredible mother. A woman from a foreign land, brought into a political marriage, who strove to do her best in the role she had been appointed.

This is where Adolin got it, Kaladin thought, as her partner described a woman as though she were the sun incarnate, bright and warm and full of life.

“She would have loved you,” Adolin said at one point, and Kaladin believed them, could hear the ache in their heart even as they smiled. It was impossible to avoid thinking of Tien, of the light lost from Kaladin’s world, and the two felt a pain in kind with one another, cloaking themselves in their loss and in the sympathy they felt from the presence of the other.

Adolin never asked for Kaladin to do the same, but they didn’t have to. It felt nice to share, to tell her partner of her stern father who helped all who those who needed him without asking for a single sphere in payment; of her odd mother who had challenged Kaladin’s way of thinking in a thousand small ways; of the brother she lost, who she had loved, who had carried her through the dark moods. She avoided speaking of Roshone, of Laral, of the entirely bloody affair that ended with Tien’s blood on her hands.

This was a day where they sought refuge from the storm, together, in each other. Not a day for tearing open that old wound.

Perhaps it was foolish, but as they held each other, Kaladin felt as though their hearts beat in harmony with each other.

It couldn’t last forever.

Nothing good ever did.

There was a knock at the door, and Kaladin rose from the bed to find Jasnah waiting for her. “We should speak.”

After considering a flat refusal, Kaladin sighed and turned back to Adolin. They looked at her from the bed, clothes ruffled, hair charmingly messy. “Go ahead. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” There was a change to their voice, lately, as they’d started practicing some of the tips Kaladin had given them on learning to sound less like a man. Not enough to make them sound feminine, at least not yet, but it was noticeable to her ear anyway.

Kaladin smiled as she left, thinking of how the dalewillow roots were going to affect the nonbinary royal as time marched foward.

She followed Jasnah out into the corridor, each door they passed leading to another rented room, until they reached an exit. The wind was still howling outside, but the storm’s force was largely spent, and it had begun to transition into the mild riddens.

At first, Kaladin expected them to simply stand near the doors, to use the sound as a cover, but no, Jasnah left the building, and after a moment’s hesitation, Kaladin followed.

They were so deeply ensconced in the protecting rock of the cover that the rain couldn’t reach the shelter, but the wind still harried them, blowing the skirts of their dresses with each gust.

Kaladin was wearing another of Jasnah's hand-me-downs, though at least they'd been able to get this dress retailored for Kaladin's build by the captain’s wife. The dark blue cloth sat well on her, and while she would still take a long skirt and blouse over this sort of finery any day, there was something to wearing the dress that made her feel distinctly womanly.

“Regarding your earlier outburst,” Jasnah began, looking not at Kaladin but instead out to what they could see of the sky and the sea, dark and gray and tumultuous. “I thank you for speaking your mind on the issues raised.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” Kaladin replied, eyes following a flock of windspren flowing with the force they were named for. Is that where Syl got to?

The princess let out a quiet sound that may have been a huff, or perhaps a laugh. “An excellent trait, so long as it’s properly tempered by an understanding of when it is to be employed. I’m well aware of how difficult holding your tongue can be, make no mistake, but there are times when silence is the better option, for you and for others.”

Kaladin scowled. “I’m not a child.”

“I did not say that you were.”

“No, you just told me something obvious as though I’d never heard it before. I’m not a fool, either.” The windspren now out of sight, Kaladin turned her attention on Jasnah, and was surprised to see her smiling faintly.

“It was not my intention to insult you, but as so often happens, it seems I’ve done so regardless.” She shook her head. “Your remarks regarding the parshman are noted. It is not my intention to begin a genocide, nor to perpetuate a grand injustice. I was attempting to state the facts as they're known to us, and in the process, I pushed you to anger." It sounded as though she was both quite used to this sort of thing happening, and also dreadfully tired of it. "The way forward is still unclear, with as many unknowns as we are still left with. Can you trust that, as we move forward from here, I will attempt to plot a course that is the most ethical of our options?”

The question raised, Kaladin let herself think on it, rather than jumping to what came to her tongue first, or placating Jasnah with what she wanted to hear. “...we’ll see. I won’t know for sure until I hear what you want to do.” Or until I know you better. Shallan saw Jasnah as an ideal come to life, and when it came to lighteyes, the heretic seemed more reputable than most.

She had also lured four men into an alley before killing them with her Surgebinding abilities. Kaladin agreed with the end result, but the deadly lesson didn’t engender her to trust this woman.

“An honest answer.” Jasnah paused, then let out a long sigh. “You remind me of someone.”

“Someone stubborn?”

Jasnah sniffed. “Someone with a distaste for authority. She was my student, in a manner of speaking, and your performance in the cabin has left me thinking of her.” It was hard to read the woman’s tone. As always, it sounded more dispassionate than anything, but Kaladin thought she could see fondness coloring Jasnah’s violet eyes.

“I can follow authority, when I need to.” Her mind went back to the years as an apprentice, the multitude of instructors and surgeons and ardents she’d worked with, all of whom had expected total obedience from their apprentices.

“So can she,” Jasnah replied. “And yet... it seemed as though you would almost welcome a Desolation. As if it were a compassionate storm, able to wash away all that ails our society without destroying anything you love. My student would have gone further. She rejected the very notion that anyone should rule, yearning for a world where none are placed over others. Ideals borne from fertile ground, beliefs that some would even defend as noble, but ones which she sought with a tempestuous fervor and a distinct lack of patience.”

Kaladin blinked. It was an incredible concept, though she wasn’t sure how it would work. Getting the lighteyes to give up their property, their power over others, would already be a nightmare in the making, but even if it happened, Kaladin didn’t know if she could envision how Vorin society would work, how decisions would be made.

But maybe I don’t need to. Not yet. Do you need to know where the destination is in order to start your journey? Something to ask Syl about, perhaps.

“It sounds like you tried to talk her out of it,” Kaladin noted.

Jasnah frowned, the expression making a wrinkle between her perfect eyebrows. “I would not phrase it as such. What I attempted was a tempering of expectations, and a reframing of the problem. She seemed to listen, however...” With a shake of her head and a wave of her pinned safehand, Jasnah dismissed the issue. “I have strayed from the topic. You spoke out, and I have done what I can to address your concerns.” Her tone made it evident she considered that matter closed, that she was ready to move on. “I’ve had concerning news from the warcamps.”

Was that a tightness in her voice? Kaladin turned to face her more fully, to keep her attention focused on the tension in her shoulders, the redness in her sclera. “What’s wrong?”

“My uncle led a joint assault to a particularly large plateau, working in tandem with Torol Sadeas.” Her uncle... the Blackthorn? And Sadeas, that was the highprince who governed Hearthstone. Names to Kaladin, faceless and remote, but figures important to Jasnah's life. “The details are still muddled, and there is much investigation to be done, but... nearly eight thousand soldiers sworn to the Kholin princedom were slaughtered, either due to Sadeas’s cowardice or his scheming.” Her tone made it clear which she thought was more likely.

“What of Dalinar?” Kaladin asked, unsure how lightly to tread. She’d never seen Jasnah this... emotional. No, not just emotional. She’s distraught.

The princess was doing a remarkable job keeping herself together, but years in a hospital had taught Kaladin to see the signs. Tremor in the hands, bloodshot eyes, a stiffness to her expression. More than that, Kaladin could see signs of exhaustion, lack of sleep, missed meals. How hard had this woman been pushing herself?

“We don’t know. He could be dead as well, or he could have been captured by the Parshendi. They've been unable to locate his body, as of yet.” The brittleness of her words told Kaladin she expected the worst. “The balance of power is shifting, drastically. By the time we are able to reach the Shattered Plains, it may be too late.”

Kaladin felt a chill, her mind putting the pieces together just as the request was put to her.

“I need you to depart ahead of us, and travel directly to the warcamps, alone. Not yet, but at the point when our ship is closest by flight.” Jasnah met Kaladin’s eyes, and she was not prepared for what the princess said next. “Please, Kaladin.” This was not a demand, not an order, there was not a single ounce of authority in her voice as she spoke.

The surgeon thought to the partner she’d left behind in that room, how they had spoken so fondly of the father who had been absent for so much of their life.

I will protect those who cannot protect themselves. Kaladin hated this. I’ll be alone, waiting on the others to catch up.

Alone amongst lighteyes, amongst royalty, who knew nothing of this newly lighteyed woman, with a living Shardblade and Surgebinding abilities.

“I’ll do it,” Kaladin spat, “but only if you take care of yourself. Sleep full nights, eat full meals. Surgeon’s orders,” before turning on her heel and leaving Jasnah to the winds.

Chapter Text

-8-

Dead Inside

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

On a good day, the life of a street musician was not a terrible thing.

With the right street, the right crowd, the energy began to build, the performance escalated, and the lunui case filled with sphere after sphere. Not a fortune, but good money for good work, and the fun of knowing she had played her best.

This was not a good day.

A girl, barely ten Weepings old, stood at the side of the street, empty case at her feet, instrument on her chin. She made its strings sing with her bow, desperately hoping to catch the attention of one or two of those passing by on the town's central street. Those few she did ensnare quickly escaped, rarely leaving anything but a clearchip behind.

Danahui the Mad was tall for her age, with gangly limbs and sharp elbows and the beginnings of what would become acne. Her red hair was long and wild and untamed, the bangs so long that none noticed the color of her eyes. Why would they? Dressed in her colorful but well-worn and dirty clothing, her shirt too baggy, her trousers too short, she looked like what she was: a street urchin, a creature of little consequence.

After hours and hours of playing, Danahui looked at what few spheres she’d collected, and knew it would have to be enough. Panting and sweating in the summer heat, the girl could keep playing, she knew this, but it would be foolish to do so.

Words from another life came to her, the voice stern and uncompromising. Know your limits. No matter your instrument, your body is doing the most work. Push yourself too hard, and you will break before the strings do.

“Danahui!” called a voice, and she turned to see a gaggle of other children approaching, the boy at the front smiling at her from ear to ear. “You’re finished?”

She looked down at her hand, which was in the middle of putting away her lunui, the strings already removed and bow in its proper place. Then she turned her attention back to the boy, and the other children around him. “Once again, you are asking question your eyes could be answering, Kyl.” She finished the task, slinging the case over her shoulder and turning to her friends. “What is plan?”

The boy pouted at her comment, but she could tell he wasn’t really upset.

That was the strange thing about Kyl: he relished attention from Danahui, even if it came from her making fun of him.

Before he could speak up, another girl pushed to the front of the half dozen children, one almost as tall as Danahui herself, her long white eyebrows tucked behind her ears and her arms akimbo. “We’re going to explore.” Flyvn was the oldest of the crowd, and that made her the leader.

“Explore?” She looked around, raising an eyebrow none of the others could clearly see past her veil of bangs. “This is town. What is to explore?” The accent sounded more natural now than it had two years ago, and it was always an easy way to amuse whatever other kids she met. Sometimes, they’d even ask her to say certain words over and over, and with each repetition, she would exaggerate the voice even further.

“Not in town,” Flyvn replied, before pointing beyond the lait, to the hills around the sleepy Veden community. “The wilderness!” Despite her eyebrows and mouthful of a name, Flyvn didn’t sound Thaylen, not unless she was speaking to her father.

Danahui laughed, and she made a performance of it, the sound of booming, her stomach heaving. “Wilderness? This is safe country, nothing wild here.” She paused, putting a hand to her chin, as if thinking it over. “Though, perhaps that is for best. You are not from Peaks, this is most ‘exploring’ you can do.”

With a frown that only made Danahui know for sure that she enjoyed the banter, Flyvn rushed forward and lightly shoved Danahui, only enough to take her back a single step. “Oh, come off it! You’re not really from the Peaks.” She wasn’t as confident as she wanted to pretend, however, her tone falling near the end of the sentence, as if it was more a question than a proclamation.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Danahui replied, shaking her head. “Are you needing another story? You can be asking if you want one.”

Her friend rolled her eyes, but Danahui couldn’t miss the anticipation in her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up. “If you really want to, I guess you can tell one while we walk.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and set out for the edge of Vastov.

“Now, has Danahui told any of you about her older brother? Giant of a man, he is, and...”

Danahui fell into lockstep just beside Flyvn as she began the tale, one whose every detail she invented as the words reached her lips. It was a ridiculous lie, one where a God of the Skyeels emerged from an Ukalaki ocean, defeating all who challenged it, so powerful only Danahui's fictitious brother could defeat the beast, and on and on she went.

The gaggle of kids who followed in Danahui and Fylvn’s wake ate the story up as they climbed hills and scaled rocks and poked at cremlings.

They were a good audience, as fine as any group of friends Danahui made as she traveled. She loved to listen to their own stories, their lives, to hoard what she could learn of them. Kyl was going to become a glassblower, like his father, and he his his excitement for that fate as though it were a curse and not his dream. Brel was always scared of being left behind, forgotten, the smallest child at the back of the pack. Vul was curious, ever asking why, an ardent to be, perhaps.

But it was not their attention Danahui sought, not truly. Though she did not yet understand why, she cherished each grin and giggle she earned from Flyvn, a girl so much more slender and dainty than Danahui, and nearly an entire year older.

Eventually, as was always the way of things, the sun approached the horizon, and the others left to their homes, their families.

“Only a few more days before we leave,” Flyvn said, watching the others run off, sitting on the ledge of a rocky outcropping beside Danahui.

Pulling her knees up to her chin, Danahui wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to keep her voice chipper. “Am I...?”

Flyvn leaned closer, resting her head on Danahui’s shoulder. “You ask that every time. Of course you’re still a part of the caravan, silly. If Dad tried to leave here without you, I’d never forgive him. I can’t lose my best friend.” Then she stood up, raising her arms and stretching.

The street musician stayed where she was, curled up, eyes looking at the drop before her. It was a solid fifteen foot fall, at the very least. “Thank you.”

“Have a good night, Dana. Get some good sleep, okay?” Then the girl ran off, leaving Danahui by her lonesome.

There was no need to check her sphere pouch, hidden inside the hole of her lunui when the instrument wasn’t in use. She barely had a mark to her name, enough for another few meals. Her stomach growled, and even the bland soulcast food she could barely afford sounded good.

The mark would also be enough for a night in a bed.

When the caravan left, Danahui would enjoy sleeping in a bedroll every night, lying next to her closest friend in the world. Food every day, so long as she worked hard for Flyvn’s father and earned her keep. But when the caravan stopped in a town, trading with local merchants and finding new goods, Danahui was back on the streets, left to fend for herself.

Food or shelter. Danahui had lost count of how many times she faced this choice. It was luxury to get both at once.

Food or shelter. Once, this question tore away at her, made her pace back and forth, or want to tear out her hair by the roots.

Food or shelter. Now, she just felt numb to it. Dead inside. Again, she would be left to decide which she could live without.

Her eyes wouldn’t leave the drop below her. What if I gave it up? Said goodbye to Danahui, and became...? It wouldn’t be difficult. Go to the ardents, or a citylord, tell them her story, her real story. She had evidence, she had the eyes, no one could deny her. It would mean a warm bed and delicious meals and never having to make this terrible choice ever again.

It was also likely to lead to her imminent demise.

But wasn’t that risk worth it, for all she could gain, no, reclaim?

Storms, how tempting it was, and not for the first or last time. There had been nights she’d clutched her empty stomach, the pain of her hunger more than she could bear, and felt herself ready to stop running, stop hiding. All that had stopped her then was exhaustion.

The same words would come to her, every time. Reminding her of why it was she lived on the streets. "She's just a little girl. Keep an ear to the ground, and eventually, you'll hear her footsteps loud as thunder."

Eventually, Danahui stopped playing the fool.

Food, she chose, heading into town to spend a sphere on a meager dinner, then find an alley where she could rest for the night.

She could not die. She couldn’t.

Danahui had made two promises. One to a dead woman, and one to herself. To see either through to the end, she’d need to keep her heart beating.

So she would eat. She would sleep. She would play.

It was who she was.

It was who she had to be.

Chapter Text

-9-

Lonely

“This is our last letter. I think you would like Dalin, if you met him, and I hope you won’t blame him. In the end, it was my decision. [...] Keep traveling the world and stealing hearts, madgirl. I’ll always cherish what we had together.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Zenshi to Danahui. Sent Nanahach 1172, collected and copied in-transit

When Danahui opened her eyes, jostled awake by someone shaking her shoulder, she hadn’t expect to look up and see Hesina there, her dark brown eyes full of concern. “Danahui?”

The remnants of her dream clung to her mind like crem in dire need of chipping, but she did her best to shake it off. I haven’t been with that caravan in a lifetime, she reminded herself, eyes going alert as she felt tension flood her muscles. Hesina is worried. Is there danger? Had the Sun Acolytes from the bar followed them?

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, settle down.” With an easy confidence that flowed as steady and strong as the Windrunner River, Hesina gently pressed down on Danahui’s shoulders, settling her back into the wagon. “Nothing’s wrong, no one’s hurt.” Behind her, Danahui could see the night sky, the stars, and a rising moon.

Danahui nodded, taking careful breaths, forcing herself to relax. “You... have quite the eyes. Can they stare into my very soul?” She gave the woman a drowsy smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Be careful. You might not like all you find.” A few dissatisfied notes came from her sisters, but Danahui doubted they were truly offended.

The woman rolled her eyes affectionately, pulling away. “You’re not quite as hard to read as you think you are.” Her lips, oh her lips, they quirked into a smile that brought a warmth to Danahui’s chest. “You’ve been hard to wake up. We’ve already stopped for the day and had dinner without you.”

“Danahui appreciates being given such time to rest.” She watched as, taking a step back, Hesina let out a yawn, eyes squeezing shut. It seemed like the expression of her own fatigue had taken her by surprise. “Speaking of such things, perhaps it is your turn to be lying down, hmm?”

Hesina’s eyes sparkled as she fixed her gaze on Danahui. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“The mafah'liki grant you good fortune, then,” Danahui replied, jumping to her feet and gesturing to the bedroll she had just slept on. “There seems to be free spot for such a thing, and it is already warm.”

With a friendly laugh, Hesina accepted the offer, and Danahui left the wagon to approach the still burning campfire, getting some food for herself and taking a seat.

Across the fire, Lirin sat with his sleeping child swaddled in his lap. His eyes were not on Danahui, but on the horizon behind her. She was not sure what there was to look at, this was not exactly sightseeing country, nothing but the same sort of wilderness they'd been moving through since leaving Hearthstone.

Still, Danahui left him to it, and after finishing her dinner and administering her eyedrops, she waited until her vision returned and dug out a spanreed from her trunk to begin composing a correspondence. The very thought earned an annoyed low attack of fingers on strings as the Mercenary objected to such terminology. You may call it ‘writing a letter’, but some of us are having more class, sister. To the brute’s frustration, Danahui earned an agreement from the Lady, spoken in reverberations high and sharp.

After getting through the proper niceties with the Tashikk coordinator on the other end and agreeing to pay the fees from the usual account, Danahui began putting her heart onto the paper.

Hmm... now, was Danahui using the phrase ‘beautiful beyond comparison’ in her last letter? For the life of her, she couldn’t recall, and so settled on instead using the phrase ‘radiant beyond all description’ in her missive.

Just when she was approaching the end, someone else broke the silence.

“Who are you writing to?” Lirin asked, his worn face settled into a curious expression.

Danahui held up a finger, waiting to finish the parting line before ending the communication, thanking the fellow on the other end for his help, balling up her side of the conversation, and tossing the paper into the smoldering fire. “Someone very dear to me.”

Something in how the surgeon set his jaw shifted, and Danahui wasn’t sure if her unhelpful answer annoyed or amused him. Perhaps both? “They must be, if you’re writing them every other night.”

An exaggeration, but not a grandiose one. “They are not each to same woman.” It is also not always Danahui who is the one writing these letters, but that is even less of your business, little man.

“A woman in every port?” Oh, that was a smile, Danahui realized. She was so used to his scowls, it had been hard to tell the difference. “I thought you were a singer, not a sailor.”

“You thought correctly. After all, unlike certain sea-dwelling appreciators of the feminine form, Danahui does not restrict herself to cities abutting water, nor to simply one woman in each locale.” With her legs crossed beneath her, Danahui noticed they’d started to go numb sometime while she’d been articulating on the nature of beauty to her favorite Herdazian seamstress. A problem for another time. Leaning back, she put her hands on the cool ground behind her, staring up at the night sky, at beautiful Nomon above, at the swath of stars, at the red Scar.

Better to focus on that, than the judgemental stare she was certain her conversational companion had chosen to levy at her. “If you’re half as well traveled as you claim, that’s a preponderance of women.” His tone, at least, was mild. That was good. “Are you ashamed of it?”

That got a frown out of Danahui, though she chose to continue in directing it to the dark abyss yawning above her. “Of what? Being lesbian? Being non-monogamous?” For a moment, Danahui almost started grinding her teeth, but the cautious strings of her little sister, the dear Master-Servant, pointed out that perhaps she was assuming much from a man speaking with such a light tone, and affixed her smile once more. “No. To either.”

“The topic has you on edge.” Lirin sighed. “Or, perhaps it isn’t the topic, but the one who brought it up. I don't see anything wrong with your... proclivities, I'm just curious. I apologize if I’ve been...” He searched for the right descriptor.

As a true wordsmith, Danahui was only too happy to supply it for him. “Suspicious? Strained? Short with me?” She flicked her gaze downward, and had the pleasure to see as the man groaned.

“You and Hesina... I suppose I should be glad Kaladin isn’t here to join in.” He looked over at his sleeping child, a cherished paternal smile crossing his face. “Let’s hope the two of you don’t infect Oroden with the same sense of humor.”

You need not worry, I won’t be your protector for much longer. The words sat on her tongue, waiting to be said, but she swallowed them instead. A chorus of objections came, but Danahui did not abide by them. This man, he is having hard enough time with what has befallen him. Torn from his home, living rough after so long in a comfy house. It is not the hour to explain more, not yet. They had time, after all. The switch-off wasn’t planned until they departed the more traveled areas of the country for the true wilds on the way to the Plains.

“Danahui does not blame you, surgeon. Considering she was waking you up in night, pulling you from your home, it is making sense that your strings are tightly wound.” Who was she to judge anyone for struggling to cope in such a situation?

Lirin nodded, seeming to accept her words as the peace offering she'd intended. Or at least, that’s what Danahui thought, before his eyes hardened and he asked her, “Lay one last thing to rest for me then: what happened at the tavern? Back in Danidan?” His voice hardened, and neither had any doubt: this conversation was about to get a lot less affable.

In the face of such a stern expression, Danahui only smiled larger, tilting her head to one side as though confused by the query. “I was playing show. Or, are you referring to other favor I was doing for Quartz?”

“He asked you to assault those men?” There was no mistaking it now: this was what the judgment of Lirin sounded like. She’d been foolish to mistake his earlier curiosity for this moral outrage.

“They asked me to handle problem,” Danahui corrected, doing her best to sound firm without being too aggressive. It was not Lirin’s fault that Alethi’s singular gender neutral pronoun was rarely used outside of academia, where it was a way to refer to ardents in formal writings. Well, there, and in the sorts of social circles Danahui ran in. More to the point, it was best to keep her tone friendly, if this was the topic at hand. “And this problem? It is now handled. Danahui’s reputation remains intact.”

His frown only deepened. “Surely there was another way to handle it. Or is your ‘reputation’ that of a thug, ready to break ribs and snap femurs?” He sounded... disappointed in her, somehow.

Shaking her head in a way that sent her expanse of red hair bouncing this way and that, Danahui could feel her smile losing its sparkle. Is this the type of man you married, Hesina? “If there was way to talk through problem, Danahui would have done so. If you have not noticed, this is one of her favorite things to be doing.” Better pivot, take him off his guard, approach the situation from a different angle. “You know Sunmaker, yes?”

“Not personally,” Lirin replied, tone dry. “But yes, I’m aware of one of the most famous warlords in history. Why?” There, in his eyes, she could see a hint of interest, a shifting of his focus as he leaned forward, towards the fire between them.

The letter had long since burned into naught but ash, and most of the rockbud shells and prickletac brambles that had started the fire had succumbed to the cleansing flames as well.

Staring into the campfire, Danahui couldn’t help but try and imagine that mythical conquest, sung of across Roshar with fear and pride and longing. The torrential advance, unchecked and unstopped, sweeping through her home country of Jah Keved, until it finally broke against the Makabaki kingdoms and drowned all it caught.

“A terrible man, there is no doubt,” Danahui agreed. “Yet, not all see it as so. There are many people, your countrymen, who look at the Alethkar around them, and long for the days of Sadees.” She stopped, reconsidered her phrasing, then corrected herself. “No, that was not right. They long for the days they imagine, no matter how far from the truth these things might be. There are many such people; dozens and dozens of minor groups, and a few much larger ones.

“The people who came to bar, they call themselves ‘Sun Acolytes’. Tiny cremlings who eat the scraps left behind by their more successful fellows, always eager to throw around what weight they have, especially if doing so crushes those they despise.” Danahui hooked a thumb towards her prodigious chest, well contained in her purple vest. “Those they hate include Danahui, Quartz, and every other person who is frequenting bar.”

For a moment, she considered pressing forward, trying to explain in more detail the broad swath of people who congregated there, before deciding against it.

Not when Lirin was frowning at her like that. “You still could have tried to solve the conflict without violence.”

“Ha!” The laugh was sharp, a bark of a laugh, and her eyes narrowed at the surgeon she was charged to protect. “Yes, Danahui could have done this thing, if she wished to waste her time. But your solution, your pleasant chat, it was tried by Quartz, several times, all before Danahui even arrived. If it was failing then, it would not suddenly succeed if tried once more.”

“You’re so sure of yourself, but you can’t know.”

“I can.” Danahui did not raise her voice. There was no need. She simply needed to speak the truth. “I have seen it, Lirin. Time and time again. Men like this? They come to place they know they are not welcome, to a haven for those in need of protection, and they do it as threat. They seek violent displacement, for if you do not push them out, and do so quickly? They make it theirs, they take, they leave us vulnerable and terrified, just as their cursed Almighty tells them they should.” Any humor that had still been in Danahui’s smile was long gone. “So, you fight. You punch and you kick and you stand up for yourself, for your friends. And if you are lucky, it is only needed to be done once.” She was worried, still, that Quartz may not be so lucky.

The songstress watched as Lirin listened to her, took in her words, and promptly discarded them. “You couldn’t know, and you didn’t bother to try. I won’t deny your point, they were brutes. But after the way you acted, I don’t see how you can think that you’re any better.” He rose, a task which seemed to take some undue effort on his part. Still holding his son, Lirin headed to the wagon, leaving Danahui to sit by lonesome.

Rather than let the mood of their talk consume her, Danahui closed her eyes and thought of the dream that had held her so tightly in its clutches. Flyvn... it is has been some time, since she last visited my slumber. A harmony rose in her, her sisters reaching out to comfort her.

Now that, that made her truly smile. None of the others had been... they hadn’t known Flyvn, not the way Danahui did. They’d either been dormant or hiding or non-existent at the time.

What had happened to Fylvn, after their parting of the ways? Did she now run her father’s caravan? Had she settled down, married some silly boy and found a life for herself in some silly town?

Before she could ponder that further, Danahui felt a chill, and knew she was no longer alonger. “Hello,” came a voice from nearby, soft and musical. Like a chime in the wind.

As she had come to expect, Danahui’s sisters quieted at the arrival of the spren, leaving Danahui starkly alone as she opened her eyes to behold her visitor. “Hello.”

Floating in the air, only a few feet away from her face, was a shimmer in the air, like light reflected through water or glass. There was a timid quality to the spren, as though the wrong movement from Danahui might scare her away. “I... have some questions... to ask you.” She spoke haltingly, as though afraid of what the wrong word could bring.

“You always do.” She did not mind. Though Danahui knew not why this strange spren came to her from time to time, Seeking-never-Finding made for good company.

“Why are you lying?” came the first query, and it was one that made Danahui blink, her smile dropping as she considered that.

After pondering how to reply, she decided to ask a follow-up question. “About what? You will be needing to be more specific.” After all, Danahui told many lies. Yet she speaks of present, not past.

The spren reacted with a sound like bells in a windstorm, beautiful but chaotic, messy. “The way you’re talking. There’s no other humans to listen, so why?”

Ah. Danahui’s smile returned, much softer this time, and she leaned closer, whispering. “We humans, we must be so confusing to you, little god. This is why you come with the questions. Yes, this voice, these words, they are... not lie, but exaggeration, yes?” An idea occurred to her, and she snapped her fingers, the loud sound making the spren pull away from her.

“W-what?” Seeking-never-Finding asked, voice hushed.

“Many humans, they fall into same trap. They think, ‘Ah, if I act this way, but think another, then it is not really me’. They are having reasons, sometimes good ones, for doing things that are opposite to how they think and feel and believe.” As she explained, the spren grew closer and closer, hanging on her every word.

Words that, should her sisters have been able to hear them, Danahui was sure would have stirred up some conflict, especially from the Lady. Not all of them believed as she did.

“What they are not understanding is this: We are who we pretend to be. The performance becomes the reality, the mask becomes the face. Do you see?”

“No,” the spren replied, though something about her tone made Danahui think that she enjoyed the answer anyway. “Why did he make you mad?”

Unable to help herself, Danahui chuckled, a quiet sound just for her and the spren. “I am always mad. It is in the name.”

With a beautiful sound, the spren laughed with her. “Not like that. He made you... angry. Why?”

“Because, little god, from what Danahui can tell, he is pacifist. Believes world would be so much better if everyone just stopped fighting, and that if you do not do this thing, you are part of problem.” Now that she no longer felt quite as incensed by the idea, talking about it just made her want to laugh again. “Now that? That is madness. We cannot change world by turning up our noses and refusing to see what is before us.”

“You like violence, don’t you?”

There was something so fragile about the question, and it was hard for Danahui to think of a proper answer. “...sometimes, yes, but that is not problem. Danahui also likes music and fresh pastries and making love, but feels no anger at those who do not relish these things as she does. Violence is... useful tool, especially for change. Necessary, sometimes, in this world.” Saying in her own words made her guts twist in discomfort.

I am first daughter of first daughter, she thought, my hands, they are not meant for such things. Yet, such choices had been taken away, the die had been cast, and there was no undoing all she’d done.

Still, Danahui knew in the bedrock of her soul that her mother would be disappointed in her.

“One more, please.” The light stilled, and from it grew a shape like a tree, branches reaching up and up to the sky above. “Why do you perform?”

“Seeking, you have already asked this of me,” Danahui replied, voice brimming with amusement.

The spren’s light began to shimmer and move once more, and there was something to the motion that made Danahui sure the spren was feeling skittish. “Maybe... I forgot?”

“Maybe. Or maybe... maybe you are lonely?” Storms know I am.

Seeking-never-Finding didn’t reply, which felt like an answer in and of itself.

Still, it wasn’t as though Danahui was against having another chance to elaborate on her perspective. “When I was first starting, it was for money, for survival. When you are child on street, and you have skill, you use it.”

“But the reason changed?” the spren asked.

“Yes, yes it did.” There was no longer anything bombastic about her smile, instead it was small, and personal, and content. “I love it, Seeking. When it clicks? When I stand on the stage, and the crowd is with me? It’s beyond words. All of us, we share an experience, and they are as much a part of the performance as I am. In them, I see a glimpse of something, looking down as they connect with the music, with the words, and...” Danahui shook her head. “There is nothing like it.”

The spren made that small chiming sound again. Was that Seeking-never-Finding’s equivalent of a hum? “How do you know? Maybe... there is, and you just haven’t... found it?”

Danahui blinked. “You make good point. Yes, maybe there is. But, for Danahui, that is why she performs. To learn. To inspire. To share.” It felt right to say, good to express, even if it was to a shimmer of light in the air.

“Thank you, for the answers.” With that, Seeking-never-Finding dissipated, disappearing into the same nothing she had come from, and leaving Danahui alone once more.

While they’d been talking, the fire had almost entirely died, leaving only softly glowing embers in their wake. Her sisters roused themselves, but their sounds still felt muted, subdued, in the wake of their silencing. With unsteady, numb legs, Danahui got to her feet, ready to look around for more plants to burn, to keep the fire going while her watch continued.

But then, she saw it. In the direction they were heading, off in the distance, a light on the horizon, just barely visible.

Kholinar.

Chapter Text

-10-

Audience or Participant

“Nesh... did you need to include those more ‘intimate’ insinuations about my stamina in your last letter? I’m no Alethi prude but some old friends of yours read over my shoulder, and let me tell you, they’ve been making remarks about how ‘eager I am to please’ ever since. Still, I can’t be too upset. You didn’t know your words would find any eyes but mine. The letter still made my heart race, and I think of your gentle touch and your soothing words every night we spend apart.”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Klyns to Nesh. Sent Vevahach 1171, observed and copied before delivery

“You’re making a storm from a gust,” Shallan repeated.

Kaladin looked from her pack, already stuffed to the brim with clothing, freshly infused spheres, and her personal surgeon’s tools, to her as of yet unpacked belongings. “I’m being sent off, alone, into a whitespine’s den.”

The scholar stifled a groan. It feels like nothing I say reaches her. “If I could join you, I would. We won’t be that far behind you.”

“Not that far?” Kaladin turned to look at her, a storm clouding her expression. “Shallan, you’ll reach the warcamps in half a month. Four weeks, at best, and that's only if the ship makes good time and there are no delays on the road.” Kaladin sat on the bed, and Syl spun up to her, landing on the woman’s shoulder and resting a hand on her cheek. She looked down at herself, dark emotions clouding her eyes. “Four weeks among the lighteyes, and without a mark of support from the ones I actually like.” Her voice broke on that last word, and Shallan could see tears in her eyes.

“My brother will be there,” Adolin chipped in. They were laying on the cabin’s bed, brought over to spend time with the two before Kaladin left on her flight. Shallan had been worried about how they’d react to the news of their father's dread fate, but while they seemed more fatigued than usual, Adolin otherwise appeared to be their normal, optimistic self. “Aunt Navani too. They’re good people, Surgeon Girl. You can trust them.”

No mention of the king, Shallan noticed. An oversight, or a lack of confidence in Elhokar? Neither Adolin nor Jasnah spoke of the man often, at least not to Shallan. Then again, how much have I told any of them about Balat? Jushu? Wikim?

No one said a word as Kaladin regarded Adolin, conflict written across her face, until finally she let out a huff. “Fine.” She sought Adolin’s left hand, holding it in her grasp, determination on her face. “I’ll try. This is all still a mess of stormleavings, but... I’ll try.”

“Good.” With a grunt of effort, Adolin used Kaladin’s grip to pull themself upright, wincing as painspren emerged from the bedding to clutch at their legs. With an unsteady sway, Adolin managed to stay sitting up, leaning so their face was close to their surgeon's. “Like Shallan said, we’ll be right behind you.”

“I know,” Kaladin grunted, but Shallan could see the smile that only revealed itself in her bright blue eyes.

Adolin started to fall backwards, but Kaladin’s hands darted out, grabbing them by the sides, pulling them back. “See? You’ll always be there to catch me.” The line came from Adolin’s lip with no small amount of flirtatious spice, which had as much effect on Kaladin as a sword thrust against a breeze.

“I don’t know how I put up with you.”

“You like me, you said so earlier.”

“It was an exaggeration. I tolerate you.”

“That’s fine, because I adore you.” Adolin’s compliment sent Kaladin turning her head away, but they refused to abate in their verbal assault. “You’re beautiful, fierce, kind. You helped me rediscover myself, you took my flying, and if you would just try a havah I’m sure you would mmph—”

The barrage of affection was ended abruptly by a kiss as Kaladin leaned closer, shutting Adolin up with her lips on theirs.

It was a strange interaction for Shallan to watch. The entire scene felt almost too quaint to believe, like something from one of those vapid romance novels that bookseller had been so intent on pressing into her hands. In the air beside Shallan, Syl was floating at a ridiculous diagonal angle, watching the show with a look of mixed glee and horror.

The two continued kissing, to the point where Shallan began to worry about them coming up for air. Shouldn’t I feel jealous? she wondered. Adolin is kissing my partner, Kaladin is kissing one of the most beautiful people in the world, and yet there’s just... nothing?

No, that wasn’t quite right. The sight did bring a few emotions to the surface, desire and fear and exasperation, but none of them were possessive. I’ll never be like that, not to her. Shallan had seen what obsessive attachment twisted love into, and she never wanted to find herself repeating the mistakes of her father.

Some part of her wanted to approach, to join in, but Shallan resisted that impulse.

There was no point in intruding. For now, she was audience, not participant. It was an old role for her, and one she took to well.

Eventually, the two stopped their contest of lips versus lips, a shower of passionspren snowflakes surrounding them. “I’ll miss you,” Kaladin said, voice quiet and face flushed.

“I’ll miss you too,” Adolin replied, voice uncharacteristically weary. “But I’m an expert on missing people. It’ll be okay.” Then, they yawned. “I should try to get back to sleep.” Kaladin helped them settle back into the bed, and where Adolin fell into an uneasy slumber. The surgeon grabbed her pack, and Shallan followed her out of the cabin.

Together, they went out to the deck of the ship. The winds were steady, the night sky clear of clouds above their heads, and only a few sailors were out and about for the moment. So peaceful, Shallan thought, even as the Voidbringers are poised to return. In the distance, they could see the Unclaimed Hills, and with all the infused spheres Kaladin was carrying, she’d be able to fly herself due north until she reached the warcamps.

In the stillness of the night, standing there beside Kaladin as she looked towards her destination, Shallan realized this was it.

This was the goodbye.

“Did you already speak to Jasnah?” she asked in a hushed voice, as if she could delay this any further.

“I said everything that needs saying,” was all Kaladin had to say in reply. Then, hesitantly, Kaladin brought her freehand up to the small of Shallan’s back, her touch firm but gentle. “Promise to keep Adolin safe while I’m gone?”

“They won’t so much as suffer a splinter,” she swore. What she could do to protect them, she wasn’t sure, but her words seemed to be what the gloomy girl wanted to hear.

Kaladin pulled her into a hug. “I’m going to miss you.” Simple words, but delivered with a depth to them that rivaled the ocean beneath the ship.

“Of course you will. Without me around, who is going to tell unbearable puns?” Shallan looked up into Kaladin’s face, and did her best to blink away the tears.

Kaladin gave a small shrug. “Syl will.”

The honorspren in question popped into view from behind Kaladin’s shoulder. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Well, drat. Whatever could you be lacking without my presence, then? It seems I’ve been thoroughly replaced.” She kept up a smile even as she said the words, ones torn from her nightmares and dressed in a joke's clothing.

The spren and her surgebinder looked at each other. “Um... I can’t kiss Kaladin,” Syl spoke up. “And, even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. What if I caught her gloominess?” The spren then made a gagging sound.

Kaladin was not taking the comment as lightly, frowning down at Shallan. “Don’t joke about that. You’re not...” She could see as the surgeon struggled to elucidate her point. “No one can replace you, Shallan.”

“Of course,” Shallan said, trying to sound as though she meant it. Then, she stepped back, out of Kaladin’s embrace. “Safe travels.”

“Safe travels,” Kaladin repeated back to her, a tension between them that their words hadn’t resolved. With a sharp inhale, Kaladin sucked in a tremendous amount of Stormlight from her pack, her brown skin suddenly glowing brightly, her eyes a beautiful piercing blue. They shared a moment of silent eye contact, and then Kaladin fell up into the sky and off to the north.

Standing at the ship’s railing, watching as her lover defied gravity, Shallan couldn’t help but be sure that people would see her, talk of her. There was nothing subtle about the method of transit, but it was fast and it would get Kaladin to the warcamps with Jasnah’s missives and all the information the princess had drummed into her. Confused stories about a falling star or a flying Voidbringer were a small price to pay for that advantage, at least according to Jasnah.

“Danger,” came a soft, humming voice from the wood of the rail beside her, making Shallan nearly jump in fright. It was Pattern, he had snuck up there at some point without her noticing. “Danger!” he repeated.

That was all the warning Shallan had.

The sky spun and a scream tore out of her throat as a sudden force from behind tried to shove Shallan over the deck.

It was only thanks to Pattern’s words that her hands had tightened onto the wood, tense with fear, so instead of taking an unexpected dip into the freezing cold waters below her, Shallan clung to the railing with all her strength, hanging there as she looked up to see a hulking figure, an unfamiliar sailor, ready to finish what he had started.

“Pattern, help!” she cried.

As the words left her mouth, they felt like a ridiculous request. Pattern could not interact with objects, could not fight, could not—

Pattern crawled from the grain of the woof onto the man’s skin, the surface of his bare arms raising up to form the ridges of his ever shifting shape, and began to make a cacophony. It was a horribly loud buzzing sound, high pitched and multi-layered and grating on the ears in a way that sent shivers down Shallan’s spine.

Fearspren suddenly sprouted all around the man as he stumbled back, trying to bat Pattern away with his hands, but of course such a tactic had no effect. Pattern continued moving around the man’s body, from arms to chest to back to neck, screeching the entire time, and it was at that point Shallan realized that if she didn’t do something soon, she was going to lose her grip.

Planting the tips of her feet on what deck she could reach between the spokes of the railing, she squashed down her panic, centered herself, and worked to climb over to the right side.

It was not gracefully done, after all she was wearing a havah and had the upper body strength of a geriatric ardent, but Shallan managed the task anyway.

Watching as the confused sailor was trying to figure out what to do about the belligerent Cryptic, Shallan considered her options.

Do I run, get Yalb? There were a few sailors she could see, moving towards the sounds, but Shallan didn't recognize them, didn't trust them.

Shallan prepared to steel herself. No, this is something I could handle myself. Only ten heartbeats to... no.

She squeezed her eyes shut, that wasn’t an option, she couldn’t use that, and besides... If there are assassins here, then I’m not the primary target. They waited for Kaladin to leave, which means— Shallan blinked.

Jasnah and Adolin, two members of royalty, the type of people assassins typically went after. Each in a separate cabin, neither guarded, neither safe. Not five minutes previous, she had promised her lover that she would protect Adolin, and now there were assailants on the ship seeking their death.

Feet sped into a sprint before Shallan could think through a plan, darting past the screaming assassin to the interior of the ship. She could see movement in the ajar doorway of Jasnah’s cabin, but Shallan was already moving the other direction, towards her own room.

Rushing into the cabin, she found a rough looking Alethi man trying to drive a dagger into Adolin’s throat.

The royal beauty was staving off the attack by holding the man’s wrist with their only functioning hand, pushing back against the thrust with the support of their supine back, but they were quickly losing the contest of strength. However strong they had once been, months in a bed had taken their toll, and even had Adolin been hale and healthy, it was two arms against one.

There was no thinking. No planning.

Only a decision.

I can do this, some part of her knew. For them. For her.

Something in her wanted to laugh. It’s time to step onto the stage. No more hiding in the audience.

With a terrifying calm, Shallan summoned her Shardblade, the length of the weapon carved with a painfully nostalgic pattern, and strode forward into the room with a smooth gait. The knife was at Adolin’s throat, and the assassin was so busy trying to kill them that they didn’t see her coming.

Shallan rammed the point of her Blade into the neck of the assailant.

All emotions were numbed inside her as she watched as the blade slipped through his neck without leaving a mark, his body suddenly jerking as his eyes burned into black pits, before going limp, falling to the bed, dead. The dagger fell from his grip, slashing a shallow cut from the side of Adolin’s neck, but they were otherwise unharmed.

The task was done. Promise fulfilled.

For now.

Shallan wasn’t sure how long she stood there, in the aftermath. That old, cloying stasis came to her so easily, disassociating her from her surroundings, but when she came back to herself, the Blade was still in her hand, and Adolin was trying to get her attention. “Shallan? Shallan?!”

“Oh!” She recoiled from the shouting, cringing backwards, but quickly shook herself into sensibility. They’re just worried for me. Just like everyone was, when Shallan went away to where no one could find her. “A-apologies, I was... in shock.”

“That’s fair,” Adolin breathed, before pointing to the door. “I heard shouting from Jasnah’s cabin.” There was something they weren’t saying, something different in how they were looking at her, and Shallan realized that they had to have seen the Blade, had seen her kill.

They know. Not all of it, but... they know what I really am. What can I tell them?

A problem for another day.

Shallan rushed to her mentor’s room and found bodies on the floor, blood splattering bedding. Red carpet, once white. But now, Jasnah's room had a blue carpet, one now stained into something more fuchsia.

The bodies were sailors, no, assassins, and the blood was Jasnah’s. “Ah, you’ve made more progress than I expected.” Jasnah had several holes in her havah, but it was clear she held Stormlight in her from the way her eyes glowed like infused amethysts, her wounds already healed. There was a profoundly long and thin silvery blade in her hand, but it was dismissed quickly into mist, as though eager to hide from prying eyes.

“Y-yes, I suppose I have.” Shallan decided it would be best not to try and explain her Blade, better to allow the princess to believe what she had already assumed. “There’s at least one more left, on the deck.”

“Good.” Jasnah marched out of the room, and Shallan quickly fell behind her, a silent shadow with a deadly weapon still clutched in her hand. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it a second time.

But then, what Shallan hoped and what happened so rarely coincided.

Voice hushed, Shallan asked her mentor, “Why is that good?”

“Someone has just tried to kill us all. With one alive, we can get answers.” Something in Jasnah’s voice made Shallan consider what the woman might do in order to get those answers.

There was no objection from Shallan.

She followed in the wake of a woman she had once worshiped, ready to do whatever she asked.

Chapter Text

-11-

Grimy Fool

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

“...and that was Dana the Mad!” announced the woman at the front of the stage, and with her words came a smattering of applause.

Other acts had received better commendation from the crowd, but the twelve year old girl, long red hair trailing down her back, couldn't bring herself to care. She stood there bowing at the waist, chest heaving, face dripping with sweat, half a dozen musicspren fading away around her, and she soaked up every contact of palm on palm like she was a rockbud eagerly sipping stormwater.

Evidently, she held the position too long, and after the presenter pointedly cleared her throat, Danahui rose to her full height and rushed off the stage, out into the audience. As she moved, she carefully removed the strings from her instrument so she could put it in her case, working with the kind of grace that came from years of practice. Ready to rest after her performance, she took a seat at the bar, watching as the next act began to set up.

It had been months since the girl had last needed to perform on a street, and nearly a year since her last time sleeping on one.

As time turned a weak sapling into a solid tree, the years had grown Danahui's skills and reputation. Now she performed regularly in meeting halls and taverns, sometimes even for private events. She could set her own rates, and with the money this brought her, she’d been able to do more than just survive.

While Danahui still kept a light pack, always aware she may need to leave on short notice, she had accumulated something of a wardrobe, mostly vests and trousers, and now she could afford to have her clothing cleaned regularly.

This preference in outfits showed off how, even at twelve years old, she had begun to grow. Danahui was reaching the point where she was taller than some adults, and the caravan leader had begun a vicious cycle.

He gave Danahui manual labor to do while the caravan traveled, which built up her muscles, easier to do now that she ate so regularly. Seeing how strong she was getting, the man pushed more work her way, which built more muscle, until...

Well, until Danahui’s bare arms carried a strength that rivaled or surpassed most boys her age.

Combine those arms with her wide shoulders, and Danahui was starting to feel oddly out of place around other girls, especially...

“Dana!” The front door of the tavern opened, and in ran the very picture of burgeoning feminine grace.

With time, Flyvn had only continued to grow into herself, with her narrow frame and petite build. Danahui had always been sure that Flyvn was beautiful, but something about the evolution of her best friend's silhouette only made Danahui feel all the more an outsider.

At least I am taller than her, she told herself, an easy grin coming to her lips as she stood, letting Flyvn come to her as she rested against the wooden bar. “You missed show.”

“The show can hang!” Flyvn was grinning too, a smile that stretched across her face, and she grabbed Danahui by the shoulders with both hands, the right bare while the left was covered with a glove. Flyvn found the need for a safehand ridiculous, but her father declared that so long as they traveled in Jah Keved, the matter wasn't up for discussion. “Come with me!” Then, without a further word, she did her best to tug Danahui out of the establishment.

Danahui was a good deal larger than her friend now, and if she had dragged her heels, she could have stopped this easily.

She did no such thing.

In all honesty, Danahui would never turn down a chance to be this close with Flyvn. As she got older, Danahui had begun to have some ideas about what all her strange and strong emotions around Flyvn might mean, and while they scared her, they also gave her something to dream of. Perhaps, someday, she could confess to the Thaylen girl, and they could be wed, wife and wife, to live together in peace and happiness for the rest of their lives.

It was a quaint idea, a romantic fantasy that made her feel both foolish and giddy.

In the end, Flyvn only took Danahui around the tavern exterior, hiding on the stormside where there were no windows. “Well?” Danahui asked her, watching as the girl looked around, nervous, anticipationspren springing to life around them.

“You got a gig!!” Flyvn exclaimed.

Danahui frowned. “Yes, and again, you were missing it. Was in bar, right here.” She tapped a finger against the wall next to her.

Her friend groaned. “Nooo, I mean a real gig!” She shoved Danahui lightly, but judging by her smile, there was little risk of Flyvn actually being upset with her. “It's a party, a fancy one, for lighteyes!!” There was something in her friend’s dark gray eyes as she said it, a knowing look that made clear that Danahui’s long bangs hadn’t exactly hid what she was, not from her. Normally, Flyvn ignored it, because she knew Danahui preferred it that way.

“Big party? This event, she will be paying well, yes?”

“Obviously! A full garnet broam for a half hour of playing, but that's not nearly the best part!”

That made Danahui raise her bushy red eyebrows. A garnet broam was more than Danahui the Mad had ever possessed, and it was the sort of money that made her consider crazy things, like a second instrument, or a pet axehound.

How could that much money not be the best part?

“Sure, it's a ridiculous amount of money for rubbing two pieces of wood together,” Flyvn teased, seeing the glint it brought out in Danahui's eyes and only seeming to take more glee from it, “but this is some serious hobnobbing! There are going to be lighteyes from all of Jah Keved, plus a few foreigners! This is the chance to really get your name out there, Dana!”

It could be a major boon to her career, that much was true. For an independent musician like Danahui, establishing herself was an ongoing project, the only means she had for staying out of poverty. “And of course, Danahui is sure any fame she earns is something your father is only too happy to share in, hmm?”

The older girl’s cheeks went red, and she stamped her foot, indignant. “I mean, obviously! But it's good for us all, right? Seriously, Danahui, there's going to be a Highprince there!” There was awe in her voice as she said it, and she took Danahui's hands in hers, clasping them tight.

If only Danahui had been able to enjoy it.

Instead, she froze, transparent purple globs growing out of the ground towards her legs. “A highprince?”

“That's what my father said! Vamah, I think.” It took Flyvn a moment to see the fearspren, for her excitement to cloud over with confusion. “Dana? What's wrong?”

The Unkalaki girl had begun to back away, arms falling to her sides, panic setting in.

Vamah?! That was... he was... She shivered, and found herself looking around, as though a spying eye could lurk around any corner. Did Ana ever meet him? She fumbled for the memory, but that had been a different life, a different girl, those were not her experiences to remember.

Then, to her surprise, a soft sound came that only she could hear, confined to a corner of her mind. The soft sound of a bow on strings, hesitant, unsure, but affirmative, a confirmation that such a meeting had occurred.

Danahui blinked, unsure what to make of that. But no, it wasn't the time. I cannot go. Even if the highprince did not recall on sight the red-haired girl, the horneater with light yellow eyes and dark copper skin, he would see her perform, he would see the lunui, and he would know.

“What do you mean you can't go?!” Flyvn's voice sounded aghast, and Danahui numbly realized she had spoken her early thought aloud. “Dana, my father has been talking you up for ages, he got you this job! If you don't take it, that's going to reflect badly on him!”

To her later regret, Danahui barely heard those words. People are talking about me. Important enough people to reach a highprince. This was worse than one party. She was supposed to be hiding!! Laying low!!! Playing the part of the grimy fool, easily ignored, forgotten the instant you looked away from her. But no, she couldn't handle a little cold and hunger, and she’d gotten greedy, and now...

There's only one way out of this, the girl realized. Danahui the Mad has to disappear. She'd done it before, she’d already buried a name. What was one more?

“Dana?” Flyvn sounded less angry now, and more scared, drawing fearspren of her own now that the girl's had begun to vanish. “What's wrong? Talk to me.”

“I can't,” the girl whispered. “I'm sorry.” Mouth dry, she took a step back. There was no need to say more, but the girl felt she owed the musician too much to abandon Flvyn without something resembling a goodbye. So she told the truth. Or, perhaps, a truth. “You were Danahui's best friend. Okay? She loves you.”

Before Flyvn could ask any more questions, before she could respond to those heartfelt words, before she could ruin everything, the girl turned and she ran, hands clutching the strap holding the lunui case to her back.

There were shouts as she sprinted away, cries, but the girl had long legs and strong lungs. If Flyvn wanted to try and follow her, she'd need all the luck of Ishi himself.

Soon, she settled into a stable on the edge of the city, hiding from her actions as she planned what to do next.

Musician was the wrong choice, she told herself. Danahui's skill was her undoing. It was the obvious choice, but it was too obvious. But what else can I do?

Who else can I be?

The nameless girl had enough spheres to survive for a few weeks, if that proved necessary.

Eyes scanning around her, she caught sight of something on the horizon: an army?

No, she remembered now, it was a mercenary company, coming in from the west. Flyvn’s father had talked about them, complaining about how they'd have to leave the city sooner than anticipated so they could avoid sharing the road with a bunch of sellswords.

Mercenaries...

“Next,” called a bored Makabaki woman, waving away a sullen teenage boy and making some marks on a ledger, before turning her attention to the girl before her. “Name?”

The girl had given some thought to this. This time, she would avoid any name that had ever been hers. Instead, she chose the profane, carving out a new name from the corpse of a loved one. “Karusar,” she told the recruiter, trying her best to sound more confident than she was.

No smiling. Musicians might smile, but mercenaries are serious, grumpy. Frown at her!

Her facial muscles weren't used to the expression, at least not to the severity she was aiming for, and based on the skeptical stare the recruiter was giving her, the result looked odd. Is it the hair? Karusar wondered, running a quick hand through what was left of it after she’d taken a cooking knife to her locks, chopping them down into something more military.

“...fine. Age?”

“Fourteen!” Karusar lied, perhaps a little too eagerly. Considering her height, her build, her claim was within the realm of possibility.

She felt herself being examined with doubt, but if the company's hiring woman didn't believe Karusar, she kept that to herself. “The minimum tour is two Weepings, though there is a significant bonus for staying longer. Failure to stay for the full duration will result in fines. While not all the jobs we take on are life-threatening, it is still dangerous work, and there is risk of permanent injury or death. Do you sign onto Nakku’s Nails with a full understanding of these facts?”

“I do.” Feeling a sudden burst of inspiration, Karusar almost snatched the paper and writing implement from the woman before signing where necessary, barely looking at what it said.

A scary thing to do, but considering the life she was signing up for, perhaps scary things should come more naturally to Karusar.

Insistently taking back her things, the woman sighed and gestured to one side. “Welcome to the company. The mess tent is in the center, dinner is in a few hours, and your barracks will be marked with the character for ‘boldness’.” Then she turned her attention to the next person in line, calling them up, and leaving Karusar to her business.

Carrying everything she owned, wearing a shabby men’s shirt she’d bought just before leaving the city, Karusar trudged off.

The scowl she forced onto her face as she trudged through the camp still didn’t feel right, like clothing that didn’t fit.

It will, she told herself. Danahui didn’t fit right at first either. I’ll grow into Karusar.

Chapter Text

-12-

Inexplicable

“Wasn’t able to read that letter you sent. I tried to find someone who can read your Vorin cremling-scratch, but by the time I did, it had disappeared. Please tell me you can read Azish now! It would be good to know the storms out east haven’t knocked that pretty brain out of your thick head. Any chance on a visit sometime soon? Or are you still too busy playing the fool?”

—Excerpt from a correspondence, marked as being from Beynith to Karusar. Sent Ishiahes 1171, collected and copied in-transit. Due to mention of previous intel acquisition, letter burned before it could reach recipient

It was nice to have an afternoon to relax.

Hesina sat beside her husband at a table with several people she still didn’t know, her child resting on her lap, waiting for Danahui to come back.

The chairs and table looked old, passed down from hand to hand, well loved but also well cared for. There were marks in the wood, some accidental, some purposeful carving of glyphs or small sentences in women’s script. Around them was a large living space, one corner devoted to storage but most of it made for people to congregate in. Soft rugs lined the floors, worn from years of use, and a few paintings hung where they could.

If Hesina turned around in her chair, she could spy through a window, off in the distance, one of the famous windblades of Kholinar. It was strange to think that they’d somehow found themselves in Alethkar’s capital, but then again, trying to predict where her life would go had never been one of Hesina’s strong suits. We’re all safe, at least, she reminded herself.

Safe from what, she still didn’t know.

Once they’d entered the city, Danahui had given their wagon and chull to a specific stable, which took far longer than any of them expected with how sentimental she got over the animal. Evidently, this was their last stop with Varum, and even Hesina felt a little sad to see the big chull being taken away. For some reason, Danahui had gone far out of the way to find that particular stable, then took Hesina and her family on a brief tour of the city on the way to this hideout, pointing out small places of interest as they walked.

She still wasn’t entirely sure where they were. Kholinar was so crowded, and Danahui had avoided or ignored every question on the subject they’d thrown at her. All Hesina knew for sure was that they were in the third floor of a larger building, that it had taken some sort of pass-phrase to get let inside, and that the ceiling was dreadfully low.

If Kal was here, he’d hit his head. The thought, like so many of her eldest son, came with a brief tinge of sadness. We’re on our way to see him, she reminded herself, fighting past the momentary gloom. I’ll hold onto that.

One of the others at the table cleared xyr throat, before gesturing with a hand at Hesina and Lirin. “You’ve been traveling with Danahui, right?” Xe spoke quickly, a light accent tinging xyr words that Hesina couldn’t quite place. With that curly dark hair and darker skin tone, could xe be Herdazian?

Xe had been the one to guard the door, and had greeted Danahui warmly. It had taken a minute for Hesina to get a handle on xyr choice of pronouns, but xe didn't seem to mind her early stumbles.

Mishim smiled almost as much as Danahui did, xyr black locks cut short in a way that left xyr head surrounded by the frizzy expanse of hair in all directions, and xe were wearing a soft green robe, one that matched the color of the moon xe were named for. Even without the explicit choice in pronouns, it would have been hard for Hesina to tell if Mishim was a man or a woman. Xyr small and spindly frame looked more masculine, but xyr face was soft and round with a more feminine cast. When put to the question of what term worked best, Mishim had simply shrugged.

There was also the matter of xyr cosmetics. Mishim wasn’t one for the subtle, with distinctive bright green pigment carefully painted under xyr eyes in the spiky shape of the rising sun, a somber blue dotting around xyr brown cheeks like freckles, and dusky purple lip-paint.

“We have,” she answered. Why did xe ask? Misham had to see we’d come in with her. “She’s a charming woman.”

Her remark earned a huff from her husband and a laugh from the other man at the table, whose attention was otherwise occupied by the thick book in his hand. He hadn’t given them his name as of yet, but he was a tall Alethi man with long braided black hair, dressed with ruffles coming out of the sleeves of his jacket a scarf around his neck.

It had been strange to see a man reading so openly, but Hesina acclimated quickly. After all, this was one of Danahui’s friends, and it seemed deviating from the Alethi norm was their biggest commonality.

Rather than amusement, Mishim displayed only exasperation at Hesina's reply, rolling xyr eyes and leaning closer to her. “She’s like that with everyone. Still, if you tell her to stop, she will.” Xe gasped. “Which, you’d know, if you’d done it.” Mishim paused before, eyes sparkling, xe leaned even closer, threatening to fall out of xyr chair. “Are you interested?”

“I’m married,” Hesina replied easily.

“That isn’t an answer,” said the mystery man from behind his literary shield, idly turning a page.

Lirin reached out a hand, wrapping it around Hesina’s right while her safehand held Oroden around the middle. The child was busy inspecting the table, gawking at it open-mouthed while tracing his pudgy fingers along the grain of the wood. “We’ve already discussed the topic,” her husband stated, tone flat. “But I don’t believe that has anything to do with you.”

The demonstration of protective zeal was nearly as charming as it was exhausting, and Hesina squeezed Lirin’s hand in hers, hoping that properly communicated her feelings on the matter.

Sure enough, he leaned back in his seat, considering the matter dropped.

For xyr part, Mishim fell face first into the table, quickly surrounded by xyr arms. “I never get to hear any gossip!”

“Yes, you do,” the reading man rebutted.

“Okay, sure, I do, but only after everyone else has heard it first!” Mishim complained. “I wanted to spread it this time!” Xe stretched up, arms above xyr head as xe leaned back in xyr seat, the motion enough to send xyr chair rocking on its back legs. “Danahui probably tells a lot of stories on the road, right?”

Lirin snorted. “More than I can count.”

“And most of them, she doesn’t even direct at us, but instead to little Oroden here.” Smiling down at her youngest son, Hesina rested her forehead on him. He’s here. He’s safe. He’s safe.

“Has she told you The Art of Devotion yet?” With the question, the man actually closed his book, setting it on the table and turning his full attention to the conversation. Despite his sharp nose and the light stubble on his face, there was something noticeable to the curve of his chin, the slope of his throat, though Hesina had a hard time knowing what exactly made them catch her eye.

Hesina and Lirin looked at each other, and it was her husband who said what they were both thinking. “The name isn’t familiar.”

“Well, that’s only the most well known publication of the story,” the man said, drumming his fingertips idly on the cover of his book. “It’s a folk tale, common throughout Eastern Roshar, told orally for who knows how long, and set down on page for the first time... oh, I don’t recall how long ago. Literature isn’t my field. Many know it by the name ‘Nara and Vedelis’?”

The name didn’t seem to do anything for Lirin, but Hesina couldn’t help feeling a vague sense that she’d heard of those names before.

But before she could ask more about the story, the front door opened and Danahui strode up to the table, giving the man one of her usual wide grins. “Naln, you sweet boy, are you bothering my charges?” She tutted at him, grabbing a chair for herself and setting it next to Hesina’s before falling into it, the back turned around to rest against the front of her torso, no matter how difficult that was made through conflict between the chair's back and Danahui's robust chest.

“I was doing nothing of the sort,” Naln said with an offended sniff, picking up his book once more and turning his attention to it as a rebuff to Danahui. Or, he tried, but Hesina still caught the occasional glance at her from over the lip of the book’s spine.

It was fascinating, the way Danahui seemed able to attract the gazes of others so easily. Sometimes, it felt to Hesina as though something was literally drawing her attention towards the woman, though whether it was her immense height, her striking figure, or her behavior, she couldn’t tell. Perhaps, it was a mix of all three.

The woman was animated, alive and vibrant in a way that made Hesina think of the Danahui she’d seen on the stage. That had been the Horneater in her element.

She smiled so easily, always working to help Hesina and her husband whenever she could, even to her own detriment. It was charming, it was worrying, and it reminded Hesina all too often of the ray of sunlight she had lost. Tien would have liked her, Hesina thought, not for the first time.

“What were you up to?” Lirin spoke up, interrupting as Mishim and Danahui discussed an ardent they both knew. Something about a promotion? Do ardents even get promoted?

Without missing a beat, Danahui shifted her attention to the surgeon and shrugged her massive shoulders. “Preparations. We are to stay a night or two, but I was wanting to get everything ready, just in case.”

“Not a bad idea!” Mishim chipped in. “The city’s been crazy lately! The Royal Whitespine is making an even bigger mess of things than we could have imagined without her mommy-in-law to watch her, and the atmosphere is starting to get storming tense.” Xe spoke of this casually, as though xe was pointing out a funny-shaped cremling seen in passing.

Danahui nodded her head, folding her well-muscled arms before her. “Danahui had heard rumors, but how bad are these things looking?” Her eyes flicked to Naln. “When are you expecting the pot to boil over, hmm?”

“As I’ve told you before, it’s not an exact science,” Naln replied, a long-suffering tone to his voice. “It could be tomorrow, it could be a year from now, or two. It all depends on—”

The front door flew open, and a woman rushed in, long hair askew, breathing heavy. “They know you’re here!”

In just four short words, the relaxed atmosphere of the room turned deadly tense.

The chair Danahui had just been sitting in fell to the floor, and a change overtook her. In the moment, it felt strange, inexplicable, but in retrospect Hesina would pick out a dozen times as they’d traveled that she’d seen hints of it.

But this, this couldn’t be ignored, couldn't be overlooked. Every part of Danahui’s body language suddenly shifted. There was nothing so lackadaisical about her anymore, instead she looked stiff, tense, ready to act at any moment. The ever-present smile twisted into a heavy scowl, eyes narrowed dangerously.

When she spoke, there wasn’t even a hint of her usual Unkalaki accent, replaced with something more roughly Veden, and her voice sounded deeper, more husky. “When you say ‘here’, do you mean here in the city? Or here in this storming room?”

“Kelek’s breath, I don’t know, Sar!” the woman replied. Whoever she was, Hesina wasn’t sure if she’d be able to pick out the darkeyed girl on the street should they meet again in passing. Her clothes were dull, common to the point of anonymity, and her appearance was almost excessively plain. “I just got word, people’ve been throwing spheres around, asking about an older couple, a surgeon and his wife.”

With a low growl rumbling out of her throat, Danahui’s face became even further clouded by anger. “Shit. No time for rest.” The musician’s attention flicked to Hesina and her husband, and it felt so strange, so wrong, to see those dark amber eyes turned to her without an ounce of affection or longing coloring them. “Change of plans. We’re leaving the city, soon. I’ll get prepared, Mishim will expedite our exit strategy, and we’re gone the second we can manage it.” Her voice was flat, hard. There was no room for argument.

Though, perhaps Mishim didn’t get that notice. Xe pointed at xemself, confused. “I am?”

“You are. Take Hela with you.” She nodded to the woman in the doorway.

Cheeks lightly flushed, Naln cleared his throat. “And me?”

“Watch them. Anyone comes through that door that you don’t know? Call for me and we'll deal with them.” There was something so very final about the way she said it, and Hesina felt herself shivering at the brusque order.

The others moved to do as she asked, but before Danahui left to handle her own part in this plan, the change was undone before Hesina’s eyes.

Like ice melting into flowing water, the tension was replaced with animated energy, and a sad smile came to Danahui’s lips. “The moment for the curtain’s close has arrived, and faster than Danahui was expecting. Life, she is never predictable.”

Hesina shook her head. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Rather than answering, Danahui took hold of Hesina’s safehand, raising it to her lips, where she kissed the back of her glove. “This thing, it would take time we are not having. My sister can be explaining later, but for now...” Letting go of her hand, Danahui gave a small bow. “It was a pleasure, being your protector. To all of you.” She purposefully met Lirin’s eyes, and gave him a wink. “Stay alive. Listen to my sister. Do not think too harshly of her.” Then, without another word, the woman strolled into the room they were meant to be sleeping in, the one that held all their belongings.

I know she’s coming back. Danahui said she was going to be getting us out of the city.

So why does it feel like I’m never going to see her again?

Hesina wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, a grief settled in her, and she looked to her husband, who seemed to be just as unsettled by the sudden goodbye.

They both looked at Naln, but he was pointedly avoiding their eyes, looking instead at his book. “It will be explained in time, and it is not my tale to tell.”

“How do you know her?” Hesina pressed, not quite willing to drop the topic entirely.

“We dated, for a time,” Naln said, a sigh in his voice. “She was the storm that helped me bloom, the rainwater that let me break free of my dull facade and reveal my inner splendor.” The man spoke with nostalgia, of longing for a time now past.

It took a moment for Hesina to understand what he meant, but as she turned the metaphor over in her head, as she looked at the man’s build, at his face, she put the pieces together. “I suppose it didn’t work out because of your no longer being a woman?”

Naln sniffed, though Hesina couldn’t tell if he was indignant or amused. “No, that wasn’t the problem. From what I know, I’m far from the first man she’s been with. Despite how it may appear, our musician doesn't truly constrain herself to a single gender. No, as it turned out, Danahui is simply... a lot. She’s one of the most attentive people I’ve ever met, but she can also overwhelm all too easily. We aren’t a good match.” It was barely visible past his book, but the man started to smile. “Nonetheless, she’s an excellent friend. And her sisters are... less challenging, for me, yet just as charming.”

“What did they mean before? About the city?” Lirin asked, leaving the matter of Danahui’s sisters alone for the moment.

“While I do my best to stay well rounded in my scholarship,” Naln replied, eyes never leaving the pages before him, “my particular academic focus has to do with civil unrest. It may be for the best that you’re leaving: Kholinar is at a tipping point. These streets may not be safe for much longer.”

The idea sounded odd to Hesina. From what she’d heard, Kholinar was supposed to be the seat of Alethi culture, unsacked and unchanged over the millennia. “Why is that?” she asked him.

“A number of factors. Extreme wealth inequality, frequent food shortages, displays of extravagance by the ruling class. On their own, all are symptoms of major failings in administration, but together, they’re catastrophic.” He spoke of the subject clinically, though Hesina felt sure she could hear a light undercurrent of curiosity under his words. “There’s going to be a tipping point. It could be a natural disaster, a corruption scandal, a political blunder. It doesn’t really matter. Unless the underlying causes are addressed, this city will riot.”

“All that energy put into destruction, when they could be using it to solve those same problems,” Lirin complained.

Naln chuckled quietly to himself. “Oh, I don’t disagree. Riots can be terrible things. A spear as easily wielded by prejudice and fear as it is by righteous rage and retribution. A method of last resort, but sometimes...”

“Sometimes?” Hesina asked.

“Sometimes, such extreme methods are the only way to make yourself heard.”

A silence followed the statement, and Hesina could see as her husband digested the idea, even if she could tell he found it distasteful. It’s not something he’ll take to easily, Hesina admitted to herself, but I think Naln has a point. Lirin spent most of his life in rural communities, where the division in class was simple, direct. Tomat had not been nearly so cut and dry, and even from the position Hesina’s family occupied, they could feel the ebbs and flows of the city.

Before they could discuss the matter further, the bedroom door was thrown open, and a warrior emerged.

For a moment, Hesina didn’t think she was looking at Danahui. Once again, her posture and expression had gone all serious, empty of her usual silly glee. Instead narrowed eyes, a bright yellow instead of a dark amber, scanned the room. So, Lirin was right, she thought. She really is lighteyed. He’d guessed it weeks before after seeing her use those eyedrops. Evidently, she had a way to flush them out.

It wasn’t just her eyes and her body language that had changed. That long trail of wavy red hair was no longer free, instead contained into a high tail that left only some scant bangs hiding her forehead. The vest and trousers look was gone, replaced with gear made for battle.

Rather than leather armor or chainmail or full plate, the outfit was a mix of all three. A steel breastplate protected her chest, hints of chain poking out of the long sleeves of her dark leather shirt. There was more thick plate protection in vital spots, her knees and elbows and forearms, but the rest was lighter armor, perhaps something easier to move around in.

A sheath on her waist held a longsword, a visible promise of the violence she was capable of.

“Danahui?” Hesina found herself asking, unable to help but make it a question.

The query made the scowl on the woman’s lips settle in deeper. “Karusar. I’m her sister, and right now we’re facing the stormwall without shelter. That means you’re my storming responsibility now. Save the questions for once we’re clear of this crem-coated metropolis.”

Then she moved by the door, waiting for the others to return, hand on the grip of her sword.

Fuck you, sis. Seriously, you had to put off telling them?

She got no response, of course, because her stupid fucking show-off of a sister was resting.

Fronting as long as she had been, rarely giving up control (and never all of it), had drained Danahui more than the idiot wanted to admit, and so now the best she could do in response to Karusar’s insults was make weak violoiv sounds of apology.

Karusar, as always, was left to do the shittiest parts of the job. That wasn’t a surprise, it had always been the plan for her to handle the most dangerous leg of the journey.

Didn’t mean she had to be storming happy about it, though.

She walked in the front of the group, barely a pace or two in front of her charges. She could already feel some aches developing in muscle groups across her body. That was the problem with any of them holding the body that long, their postures were all completely different, and the sudden shift would take a while to adjust to.

A few of Karusar’s friends carried the group’s luggage behind them, while Mishim guarded one flank, and Naln the other. Or at least, she was fairly sure xe was still Mishim. Salas would be next, and even without knowing the situation it was in, Salas had a tendency not to speak up about a sudden setting from one to another.

Whatever, that didn’t matter.

They were in danger. She had no clue if their enemies were trying to capture the married couple, kill them, or were flexible enough to try either one. It was Karusar’s job to make sure they never had to learn the answer to that question through practical experience.

Kelek’s cunt, she wasn’t even sure who was storming after them. Jasnah, you secretive bitch.

Kholinar was a large city, dense and populated, so even as the sun began to set and night settled in, their trek through the backstreets of the Alethi capital involved a lot of shoving people out of their way and keeping her eyes alert to make sure no one was suddenly going to launch a surprise attack.

They got through the city gate without a problem, approaching the stable they needed, one run by fellow Fools. They passed a bar, the stable coming into view, and...

Someone was waiting for them, hiding in the shadow of the tavern. Quite a few someones. Half a dozen cremling-shit cowards in cloaks and hoods, body language unmistakably unfriendly.

Everyone froze.

The wagon and horses were visible in the stable, loaded up with everything they’d been able to get on short notice. Bryn, the poor stablehand with tinnitus, stood there, waiting for them. He could see the confrontation, but she didn't move from where she stood.

Of course he isn’t. Bryn’s got at least half a brain in her head. No weapon, scrawny ass teenager like him would be more of a handicap than a help.

“Evening,” said the lead sphere-sucking son of a chull. A guy, it sounded like, the kind who loved to hear himself talk.

Rather than indulging him with a verbal response, Karusar spat on the ground before her.

The man chuckled, but Karusar could see the way his posture shifted. Put a hand on his weapon, she guessed. “We have no intention of harming them.”

“I have every intention of harming you,” Karusar replied, voice a low growl. “But Battah’s balls, I rarely get what I want. So if you shut up, back up, and let us pass, I’ll walk away unhappy.” There was a giggle behind her, Mishim from the squeaky sound of it, but no one else seemed amused.

“Oh please, Danahui,” the man said, a blatantly fake sigh to his voice. “Come now, even you can’t sell this lie. The costume doesn’t become you.”

“...”

Karusar wasn’t able to help herself. She laughed, the sound sharp as her longsword. Oh, this isn’t anything to worry about, then. This imbecile is all talk. Looking over the six foes arrayed before her, she could see their hands on, as best as she could tell, daggers and shortswords. No signs of armor under their clothing.

After all, they came here in secret. Sneaky stab-in-the-dark types. And more importantly, they were expecting Danahui, a bar-brawler who had only ever been seen fighting with her fists.

“Mishim, Naln, with me. Everyone else, get to the wagon.”

She didn’t wait to see if they listened.

Her attention was elsewhere.

Fights were about momentum.

Well, no, that wasn’t true. Fights were about a few dozen factors, any of which could decide things, with all else being equal.

But in this case, on the outskirts of Kholinar in the dead of night, what Karusar needed was momentum. She had the advantage in reach, armor, and strength, but they had numbers, even with her friends as back-up.

Which is why, before drawing her longsword, even as she told her friends what to do, Karusar was grabbing a knife from its hidden hip-holster and throwing it at the man who’d been so eager to flap his gums.

Her aim was off, hitting him in the leg instead of the center of mass, but he still cried out in pain and was left with a blade in his thigh, so who gave a crem-stained shit?

The guy said something about getting them or attacking, but Karusar didn’t really hear him. She was too busy charging at the crowd, pulling her sword from its sheath, and savoring the fear in their eyes as she approached.

With a wide, sweeping slash, Karusar got them all on the backfoot, even scoring a lucky shallow cut on one near the middle.

It was about that time that her friends joined the charge, Mishim on one side with xyr cudgel, Naln on the other with a shortspear. Neither were trained soldiers, but Karusar and the other Fools with real experience made time to teach the others what they could, when they could, and the timing with Karusar’s slash was tight enough that their foes were slow to respond.

Karusar pressed forward, kicking the mouthy guy in the chest hard enough to send him skidding onto his back, around which time the three enemies who weren’t otherwise engaged or crawling away on the ground tried attacking her.

Three on one is never a good situation to be in, and even with a swing taking Lefty in the side, Righty got in close and stabbed her.

The chainmail under her leather was able to dull the blow, but even as Karusar retaliated with a strong punch to the man’s face, she knew that she’d be left with a nasty bruise, at best. Longer this fight goes on, the more likely it is they’re going to get in a lucky shot, or their friends will take out one of mine.

It was her favor then that there was no point to drawing the fight out longer than they needed it to be. Karusar continued focusing on her three, keeping her form tight, controlled, reducing personal risk even if it meant less chances for solid strikes of her own. She did not wait for her opening, she made it.

Karusar didn’t fight with a song in her heart or in her head. Her sisters were quiet, at her request, to avoid distractions. She knew that some soldiers relied on instinct, or luck, or the Thrill. None of that worked for her. The only way Karusar knew how to fight was to think. She kept her eyes open, senses sharp, looking for any small advantage. A trip here, a feint there, exploiting any flaw she found, and forcing ones where she could.

That’s how she ended up having a few seconds free to breathe, her enemies on the backfoot, all of them injured in some small way. She used the time to check, and indeed, her charges were in the wagon, watching the struggle. “Let’s go!” she called, before turning to sprint away.

She made it a few feet before feeling a sharp pain in her shoulder, cold metal digging into her flesh, but that was no reason to stop. It was a mad dash to the stable, every step bringing a stinging agony from where she’d been hit. Karusar powered through, pulling herself up to the front of the wagon and waiting until she heard her friends climb inside before snapping the reins.

The horses got to work, and as they pulled away from the city, heading east, Karusar turned back and saw no sign of the people they’d been fighting. For now, the danger had passed.

When she glanced back up to her charges, they were staring at her, stunned.

“Danahui, there’s a knife in you!” Hesina called, and soon she felt the woman’s hand on the grip, starting to move it.

“Don’t!” Karusar shouted, and was surprised to hear Lirin doing the same. They both knew that it would be better to avoid withdrawing the blade until they were able to do something about the wound. In the meantime, Karusar would just be careful not to move that shoulder.

Hesina listened, settling back in the wagon, and silence descended on the group.

For all of five seconds.

“Y’know, that wasn’t too bad.”

“Mishim, you can’t move your right arm without wincing,” Naln tutted.

“Good thing I’m left-handed then, huh?”

Lirin let out a long, profound sigh. “Are you two... coming with us?” He did not sound particularly enthused with the idea.

“We four,” Naln gently corrected, and even without looking back, Karusar was sure that neither Hesina or Lirin knew what to do about that.

Rather than deal with that latrine full of shit there and then, she spoke up. “We’re heading into the Unclaimed Hills. The area is lousy with bandits and deserters, so I’d rather have a few extra heads with us, just in case.”

Once they were comfortably far from the city, Karusar let Naln take over with the horses, while she finally stripped off her armor and let Lirin pull the weapon from her back. “Your clothes weakened the impact,” Lirin told her, tone sterile, as he set the offending blade next to her in the wagon. “But it still dug into your muscles. I’ll clean it as best I can, then stitch it up. Whenever possible, try not to exert those muscles.” From his tone, it was obvious he would have preferred this to be done in a surgical suite. Probably his own.

Karusar felt uncomfortable, sitting there in her undershirt. The armor was more than protection, it was also... concealing. Now, everyone could see too much of her chest, Hesina could see too much of her chest, and that knowledge made her skin itch.

“Wait a second...” Naln reached down, grabbing the bloody weapon and holding it up for Karusar to see. “Isn’t this yours?”

She blinked.

Sure enough, looking closely, it was the exact dagger she’d pulled from her hip-holster at the start of the fight. “Huh,” she muttered, wiping it off on her trousers before slipping it back where it belonged. “Guess the guy could do more than talk after all.”

The comment earned a round of laughter from Mishim, a smile from Naln, and a mutter under his breath from Lirin.

Her eyes drifted over to Hesina. She’d stayed quiet, and when their gazes met, Karusar could see as she searched for something familiar, only to look away.

It would be nice to say that Karusar was used to that sort of thing. Everyone loved Danahui. Life of the party, charmer of women, so fucking clever with her tongue.

Who wouldn’t be disappointed to find her gone, to be left with Karusar instead?

It still hurt.

With the soothing strums of her guet, Nesh tried to tell her that things would be okay, that the transition would take time, and explanation. Hesina had only just met her, and would come to care for Karusar too, with time.

A pretty melody. Maybe Ana would have believed it.

Karusar closed her eyes and ignored the music. She knew better than to expect a windfall.

THE END OF

Part One

Chapter Text

Interludes

Lopen, Varat, Akilu

I-1

Lopen

Lying on the uneven, rocky ground and staring up into the sky, Lopen was able to finally admit that, sure, things weren't going so well.

The conclusion has been building for weeks, and with only one arm, he could only hold it back for so long.

He had lost count over how many times he had been in this position, stuck on a plateau in the middle of the Shattered Plains, listening to the Alethi fighting those marbled folks on the other side all over a big rock.

Well, not exactly this position. Normally, Lopen wasn’t on his back, blood soaking his bridgeman trousers, pain radiating out from his legs.

That was new.

Eventually, the sounds of battle faded, and then the marching came. A few people approached Lopen, tried to kick him until he got up, but Lopen didn’t move, didn’t react. Snorting in derision, they left him there, left him to die in the middle of nowhere.

The army retreated, and once it sounded like they were well and truly gone, Lopen began to speak, loudly. “People have always been telling Lopen that actions, they have consequences, and, sure, I knew that. Tease the wrong man, he might punch you. Sleep in the wrong bed, you might get thrown out. Lie down in front of the wrong cart, crunch.” He lifted his arm, trying to give a visible sign to go with the sound effect, but there was no one present to appreciate it.

“That stuff is simple, even babies know that. But, the thing is, no matter what Huio says, I know that none of it really applies to me. After all, Lopen is the master of avoiding consequences.”

It was part of how he was able to remain so cheerful.

Even after being made a slave, and all sorts of bad stuff that came with that, he hadn't been too worried.

Then, he was put into Bridge Fourteen.

“‘What good is The Lopen at running bridges?’ I told them, but did they listen? No! Those Alethi, sure, too busy looking at the next place to conquer to think about where they were stepping, or who they were stepping on.” He paired his words with action, carefully stepping up, trying not to put too much weight on the leg that hurt the most.

On the next plateau over, there were scouts, and not the Alethi kind, watching Lopen. So, he kept talking. “Didn't matter that Lopen has one arm, that he’s shorter than everyone else, that he’s a charmingly spindly guy. Nope, still got to try and carry bridges with the rest of them. Ain’t that unfair, gon?”

They kept staring, and didn’t respond.

Cupping a hand on one side of his mouth, he shouted. “I said, ‘Ain’t that unfair, gon?’!”

One of them pulled out a shortbow, but before they could draw an arrow, another pushed it down. They talked, though their voices didn’t carry enough for Lopen to hear properly, and then they ran off, jumping from plateau to plateau.

Hoping that was a good sign, Lopen looked down at his trousers, inspecting his legs. The skin was torn and cut in a half a dozen spots, all from when he’d thrown himself to the rocks mid-run. It hurt, but nothing felt broken. Lopen would live.

Still, no point standing. Lopen sat on the rocks, and got back to talking, keeping his volume up. “At first, I tried to make the best of it. Get to know some new gons, see what sort of plans they had on making it through this.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “Might as well have been planning to swim towards the Origin. None of those guys were much for conversation, and even after wearing down a few to really chat? They died, next bridge run. Everyone keeps on dying.” Those words came out all funny, like a hiccup in his throat, but Lopen did his best to ignore that.

Lopen wasn't sure how he survived when so many around him died, running these stupid bridges. Perhaps it was his size, perhaps the arrows didn't wish to hit him someone as handsome as him, or perhaps it was the luck of being a one-armed Herdazian.

Regardless, he was alive, but he was not free.

Nothing worked. Every escape attempt failed, and earned him punishment after punishment. Hiding out with crews that didn't have bridge duty that day, fleeing the warcamps by being all sneaky-like, staying with family in another crater, they always found him. For these schemes, Lopen had been whipped, and if he was caught once more, the head lighteyed blowhard promised to strap him to the roof, leave Lopen to face the highstorm.

Couldn't have that. All that wind and debris might ruin his good looks.

“The final straw was this morning.” He lay flat on his back again, closing his eyes, trying to ignore the setting sun. This plan had to work. After all, it was a Lopen plan. “I was in the market, keeping my eyes and ears open, just like Momma taught me, when I hear, ‘Hey Lopen, how are you?’

“I turned, sure, but no one was talking to me. No, some shopguy was talking to a Veden, and get this: he was called Lopen too!” Those words he almost shouted, and he could swear they echoed down and up from the chasms, as they should.

He let out a huff. “Y’know, I was always The Lopen. Because, sure, there weren’t any others. But, turns out, there is. Now, I’m not The Lopen.

“I’m a Lopen.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” came another voice, husky and deep, resonating out from inside a helm, actually speaking Alethi.

In a flash, Lopen was sitting up, his eyes open, and he saw he was surrounded. Parshendi in all directions, lots of them with weapons aimed at him, and right there? Like, right in front of Lopen?

A Shardbearer. No Blade summoned, but Lopen had heard of this gon.

Up close-like, the Shardplate didn’t look real. It was too beautiful, too intricate. Even worse, there was a second Shardbearer, farther back, holding onto their stupid big sword like Lopen was gonna start a fight. Two sets. More than Herdaz has got, sure.

Lopen grinned up at the Shardbearer. I’m a storming genius. “Hi there! Okay if you don’t understand, I was just talking loud to get your attention, gon!” Plus, it helped to say all that, though Lopen couldn’t have explained why.

“You have it.” Even with just three words, there was definitely some sorta beat there, something steady, strong. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing too fancy.” Lopen raised his one arm, palm up. “I’m here to surrender.”

Chapter Text

I-2

Varat

The seconds stretched into hours.

After so much practice, Ardent Varat felt as though she had gained a sense for when the end was drawing near. The specific signs were ineffable, as impossible to explain as faith itself, yet she felt them nonetheless.

The young man before her, lying pale and weak in a bed, would soon slip into whatever came next. Varat sat close, ears attentive, fingers poised to write the moment he spoke.

If he speaks, she thought to herself. The Rattles had been coming less and less frequently, and so many of the predictions they now gave were ones they had recorded before.

Varat was a true believer, a genuine adherent of the Diagram, and yet...

This boy was not sick. He was not injured. The only reason that he lay there, dying, was that he was poor and unconnected. Few would miss him, but ‘few’ was not the same thing as ‘none’. And there was a strong chance his death wouldn't yield fruit.

Sure enough, his breath stilled, his chest lay flat, unmoving, and not a single word dropped from his lips.

With a sigh, Varat made a note of this and got up from her seat.

“Such a waste...” King Taravangian, creator of the Diagram, ruler of Kharbranth, and the man who owned Varat, was standing behind her, watching the dead boy with eyes hooded by sorrow. “And yet, the calculations...”

Doing her best to hide her shock or her fright, Varat bowed her shaved head to the elderly man. “It was necessary. The odds of losing a glimpse of the future outweigh any single life.” And the fact that you care tells me much of your state of mind.

Unless this was a trick, a clever ruse to lull Varat into a false sense of security. But that would be unnecessary, surely.

“Have you recorded anything of use today?” he asked her, his tone mild.

Looking down at her writing board, Varat quickly searched until she found her quarry. “Yes. ‘The storm shall falter, and with it unity will be lost. Rejoice! Despair!’ The subject was... well, it’s all here. I believe that’s a unique sample, but I wouldn’t say that for sure until the scholars have had a chance to evaluate it.” It had been her first Rattle since her daughter... since Kaladin had run away.

The joy the discovery brought was nearly worth the price in human life it had cost.

Nearly.

Once she handed the paper to him, she could see that emotion reflected in the king’s eyes as he regarded the words. “The storm shall falter... the question is, which storm?” Taravangian shook his head, the wrinkles on his aged face seeming all the more stark in his moment of frustration. Does he wish this was a day in which he was smart enough to puzzle out the truth? “The highstorm? The Everstorm? No, that wouldn’t do, not with that name.” He narrowed his focus to her. “Thoughts, Varat?”

“I have considered the matter,” she replied. “In some sections of the Diagram, it seems as though you referred to Dalinar Kholin as a storm himself, or at the very least, with a potential to bind himself to one. Perhaps the storm that falters is the Blackthorn himself, caused by his unexpected demise?” There was more to her interpretation, questions regarding the contradicting emotions at the end, thoughts on what ‘unity’ meant in this case, but Varat held silent for the moment.

Despite being merely a scribe, a hand with which to save the predictions so that better minds could consider them, as a member of the Diagram she was trusted to give her own opinions on such matters, to put forward her own viewpoint.

It was part of what drew her to the work.

That, and the chance to be a part of those that would save the world.

“Intriguing insights,” Taravangian told her, tone earnest. Then, he began to leave the room. “Follow me, if you would. We should continue this conversation elsewhere.”

The statement sent a shiver down Varat’s spine, and shockspren appeared around her, though the yellow triangles quickly faded.

Despite her fear, her worry, her anticipation, as the king stepped out of the room, retreating deeper into the Diagram’s enclave within his palace, Varat followed closely behind, doing her best not to miss a beat.

“What are we to talk of, my king?” Varat asked once they were alone, moving quietly through a corridor further down into the mountain.

“Several things, but there’s no need to worry. This is not an interrogation, you are not in any danger. All you need do is indulge my curiosity.” The man spoke so softly, and Varat believed in that kindness, in that softness. She knew what kind of man she served.

Which is why she was well aware he was not above lying, no more than he was assassination or intrigue.

They already cleared me of any suspicion, she reminded herself, trying to calm her nerves, even as her face remained impassive.

As fallout of the incident with Kaladin, as the woman who had attempted to bring her into the fold, Varat had faced a brief period of intense scrutiny. But that had passed, and there was no reason to suspect that it had simply been a prelude to further investigation.

“That group you drew the Windrunner from, are you still operating it?” The question was so sweetly asked, and despite being well past her fortieth Weeping, Varat suddenly felt as if a kindly grandfather had put to her a personal inquiry, checking to see how she was faring.

Of course, the only grandfather Varat could remember was not kindly. He had been a terror of a man, and even after decades without his presence in her life, just the thought of him sent fearspren to gather at her feet.

Doing her best to shove down such emotions, Varat gave her answer. “Yes, but they don’t know anything of what occurred.” Despite that, she had felt a change to their meetings. Jennen had stopped coming after Kaladin dramatically departed, and the attendance of others had begun to lag, some dinners falling through entirely.

It hurt beyond words, seeing the community that Varat had worked to build begin to fall apart.

But she bore it as best she could, because she must.

Taravangian let out an airy laugh, though Varat couldn't hear a single note of genuine mirth to it. “Yes, I recall.” The subject had come up when Varat had been questioned, multiple times. The king glanced down, and though the fearspren had stopped following Varat’s slow and careful steps, he clearly had noticed their presence. “Please, relax. I simply wanted to...” He sighed. “You were close with the Windrunner.”

My heart aches every time I remember that night in the alleyway. She is the daughter denied to me by nature, a child of my soul if not my blood.

“I helped her discover herself,” she said instead, yet despite her best effort to restrain them, her voice was still choked with tears. “Kaladin is an incredible woman. I wish I had seen her Radiance sooner.”

“Don’t we all. It would have been quite the boon, the find ourselves with an honorspren and their chosen among our ranks,” Taravangian said, then shook his head. “Varat, I have heard from the others that you’ve been working longer than you need to. Sleeping less than you should.” The recrimination in his voice was paper-thin, light as a breeze, and yet it still cut deeper than a knife.

Looking down at her simple ardent smock, Varat shrugged her shoulders. “My king, I shall endure. The purpose of our work can sustain me.”

If I lose that, then what do I have left? Nothing. She had given up everything, a wife, a home, a career she enjoyed, all for the ardentia, all to be herself, to escape the shadow of the man she'd pretended to be. It had taken a decade to build for herself this new life, to find her place, and now it was all falling apart around her. She had no family, no friends, all that was left to her was the work.

“While I admire your dedication, and can relate to your zeal, tread carefully down that path.” The king stopped before a wooden door, one locked from the outside. This far into the palace, there was no chance of it having any sources of natural light, only spheres to see by and air brought in from ventilation shafts. “I have heard you asking after our... guest.”

Varat sucked in a breath, and looked towards the door once more, with new appreciation.

So, that is where we have gone. The lock suddenly seemed so unnecessary, almost absurd. If the man inside that chamber wished to escape, he would. They may as well have been of the Ten Fools to assume otherwise. “I was simply concerned, knowing that...” She wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence, what to call the subject of their conversation without insulting him or diminishing him.

“He knows I hold his Oathstone,” Taravangian assured her.

It did little to quell her fears. “But why is he still here?” she asked.

Taravangian leaned against a wall, and as he exhaled, Varat saw him not as a brilliant leader, the man who would save the world, nor as the king to whom she was bound to serve. No, she saw an old man, one straining under the weight of the burden he had placed on his own shoulders, slowly crushed as he tried to protect Roshar from the fate barreling down upon it.

“The plan was to send him after the Blackthorn, to crush his attempt to truly unite Alethkar. But after the events on the Plains... the boy-king is set for failure, to be eaten by those he seeks to command or continue as he has, a poor shadow of his father.” His diagnosis of the situation was clinical, without a hint of his earlier sympathy. “More importantly, unless something is done quickly, word of what your Windrunner was exposed to will reach far and wide, if it hasn’t already.”

“You haven’t done anything they can truly object to,” Varat noted, her tone oddly defensive.

When the king replied, his voice sagged with exhaustion. “True, but it will catch their attention. If I continue to utilize our Assassin, each killing will come with an added risk of discovery.” Taravangian brought his bony hands together, clenching them tightly together. “The plan would become impossible. More than that, should my crimes come to rest at my feet, this kingdom would burn in retribution.”

Varat could understand what he meant. As a city-state, Kharbranth had no true ability to protect itself, not from the wrath their king had incurred the world over.

One question stuck in her mouth. “Yet, by keeping him in the palace, the possibility exists all the more that someone will...” The answer occurred to Varat, and her dark eyes widened with realization. “By Nalan’s throat, he’s a dead man. Isn’t he?”

“It will be done before the week is out, and once it is finished, we will have his Honorblade,” Taravangian confirmed, his voice quiet. “Asphyxiation in his sleep. A softer end than those he delivered by my command.”

Several days later, Varat entered the assassin’s room.

She did so not under the cover of night, a stolen key in her hand, as though she were Nara from the tales, on an impossible mission to please the lady she loved.

No, instead she was granted entry by a guard, her hands occupied holding a tray of food. Varat had asked if it could be of a higher quality than what they normally fed the man, but the suggestion had been dismissed. Such a change could serve as a warning.

The quarters reserved for the Assassin in White were humble, yet far from a cell. The stone floor was lushly carpeted, the bed no worse than an ardent’s, and a small selection of reading material was available on a shelf.

He sat with his legs beneath him, the sclera of his eyes an irritated red, posture painfully tense, and whether he was capable of reading any of the women’s script within the literature that had been provided to him, Varat did not know.

“I hope this day finds you well,” she said, stepping close and setting the tray of boiled tallew before him.

He did not reply, merely looking down at the meager meal before beginning to placidly consume it.

The silence barely lasted for a handful of seconds before Varat felt the need to break it. “It must be difficult, to be so far from home.” The pale, bald man said nothing. “Truly, I... I know that several of my organization have attempted to coax something out of you, but I...” She sat before him, adopting a similar posture, though at her age the position awoke the usual aches in her back and legs. “I simply want to speak to you... Szeth?”

“Szeth-son-son-Vallano. Truthless.” His voice had a rasp to it, fallen out of repair from lack of use.

“Szeth,” she confirmed, a friendly smile staying firmly on her face. “Thank you.” She had thought of so many things of what to say, what to do, yet as she sat there, the moments slipping by her, Varat found herself desperately trying to recall exactly what was the best step to take next. “Is it difficult?”

“No,” Szeth told her, his voice painfully bitter. “It is far, far too easy.”

He hasn’t blinked. Not once, Varat realized, doing her best to breathe at a normal rate, to avoid her pulse racing out of control. “I didn’t mean... from what I’ve heard of your abilities, your prowess, what you say does not surprise me. I was asking regarding the, well, I suppose the guilt.” She let a reasonable measure of her own such emotion bleed into her tone.

Something about the way his eyes dilated changed, the pupils focusing on Varat as though seeing her for the first time, and she realized that he suddenly felt present in a way he hadn’t before. “Yes. Is it difficult for you?”

“Absolutely,” Varat told him. “My hand is not the one that ends the lives before me each day, but I am a part of the process. I am complicit.” Tears came to her eyes, and she brushed them away, blinking quickly, hoping to stop herself before it could go much further. “What we do is... is necessary. The goal we seek is worth even these means. I believe that, by the Almighty’s tenth name. It does not mean I find it palatable.”

There seemed to be nothing the assassin had to say to that. He simply heard her words, looking into her eyes, silent as the grave.

Gathering together her courage, Varat prepared herself for what was to come next. Just a hint, she told herself. Something simple to cover, should the question arise. She would ask about the nature of his Oathstone, of the vows he’d taken as a Truthless, compare them to her own as an Ardent.

Simply a trade in religious information, nothing more. But of course, if she poked enough at the limits of his required self-preservation, at how that interfered with his need to obey his master, perhaps he would understand.

Varat was loyal to the Diagram, to the work she did. That did not mean she had to agree with their every act, nor that she needed to move in lock-step with the others.

Before she could speak, Szeth beat her to it. “When I prepared to infiltrate the Conclave, I heard talk of...” Szeth set his jaw, and when he spoke next, it sounded as though the sound had to fight past his gritted teeth. “...a glowing woman? A flying Shardbearer?”

“Oh?” Varat blinked, unsure what to do with that for a moment, before deciding to respond honestly. She could see no reason not to. “Yes, you heard correctly. She was... well, it is no matter to you. All that matters is the truth. The ancient oaths are spoken once more, the Knights Radiant have returned, and soon they will be followed by the Voidbringers themselves.”

Szeth’s eyes went wide, the effect magnified by their roundness, their size. “No. That isn’t possible.” His tone was hushed, yet it bled with such thick emotion that Varat was only able to recognize it as rage once the angerspren began to pool at his feet.

She replied without thinking. “It is. The Desolation is coming, and—”

She never got to finish the sentence. In a flash of motion, one that she would only later learn was Szeth taking his tray of food and bashing her over the head, Varat fell to the floor, vision unfocused, and quickly fell into a state of unconsciousness as the sounds of violence began around her.

Of course, there was little worry of the wound becoming too serious, Varat was practically in a hospital.

When she recovered that evening, her attention and focus returning, several facts became clear to Varat.

Telling the truth to the Assassin in White had been a rather poor move, one brought on by incomplete information. None had told her of the nature of his binding, the key that could release him from his oaths.

After escaping his room, Szeth-son-son-Vallano had confronted King Taravangian, and while the old man had escaped the encounter with his life, the Oathstone he had carried no longer held any sway over the once Truthless assassin.

The most dangerous man on Roshar was out of their control, loose on the world.

And the entire debacle fell squarely on the shoulders of Ardent Varat.

Chapter Text

I-3

Sealed Trunks

Sitting on the shore of an Unkalaki ocean, Hualinam’lunanaki’akilu stared into the sacred waters and felt starkly empty.

The bronze skin of one cheek was swollen, still smarting, after the argument she’d just had with her brother. ‘Our place is here!’ He had shouted.

Well then, little brother, why does she no longer feel like my place?

A shadow had fallen over her home, her family, and not even the warmth of the ocean before her could help fight it. With her Sight, Akilu could see as anguishspren grew closer, drawn by her pain, and in a way, she could not help but welcome the company. They, at least, could understand how she felt.

“They go on,” she whispered, gaze on the teeth forming in the grass around her, physical manifestations of the gathering spren that even one without her blessing could look upon. “It is as if they do not care. Do not mourn.” These were little gods, incapable of responding to her woes, yet perhaps that is why Akilu felt safe in sharing with them.

Pulling muscular knees up to her broad chest, Akilu withdrew like a lowland plant, afraid of the wind. “Perhaps they already mourned,” she admitted. “I had hope, I thought Father could...” Akilu shook her head, dark red hair tossing with the motion, her lips set into a scowl. “Still, we do not know. And if it is true, if Father is gone, then...”

A ghostly growl from another world rumbled to her ears, the anguishspren retreating as the dripping red liquid, pooling beneath her, signaled the arrival of a much more terrible god, one pulled to her by the rage within.

“Mother forbade me to search for him,” she muttered, looking down into the waters and trying to think through her anger. “I cannot just disobey, not without consequences.” To defy her so boldly would speak poorly of her mother, of her family. And no matter how she felt in the moment, Akilu did not wish to hurt them. “If I had an excuse...” It would be flimsy, but if she joined onto a caravan, or offered to deliver something to the lowlands, it would not be quite the same as insulting her mother. But with everything happening, Akilu worried how long it would be before any such chance would arrive naturally. Without putting much thought to it, Akilu's lips moved, a prayer escaping to fill the air. “A reason to leave, oh spirits great and small, I need a reason to leave...”

Bubbles pushed to the surface of the ocean before her. From within the Water of Life, something was rising. Many somethings.

First came several boxes, no, trunks. Made of wood, seemingly sealed against the water, they rose one by one by one, until all three were floating on the surface of the sacred pool.

Jumping to her feet and heart hammering in her chest, Akilu stepped back, fists clenched. Unlike her father, Akilu had never seen a person, let alone a god, emerge from their peak’s ocean. Should I fetch others?

Before she could act on the thought, a face broke the surface, gasping desperately for air, before calling out in a high-pitched voice, “A little help!”

Blinking, Akilu was surprised to hear this person speaking in Unkalaki, without even a hint of an accent to her voice. Then the situation before her eyes shook her out of such thoughts and spurred her into action. Akilu quickly moved to the edge of the shore and extended her hands. She gripped the traveler's thick white gloves, pulling with all her strength, planting her feet, setting her legs into a proper position, turning at the hips, and heaving the other woman onto the grass.

It was not an easy task, but she managed it. Despite appearing to be nearly a foot shorter than Akilu, this woman likely weighed just as much, if not more. She had a round face, soft cheeks, and remarkably curly black hair. She was pale, nearly as much as Akilu’s twin brother, but her eyes were large and round, like someone from Shinovar.

The attire she wore was just as strange, though Akilu had heard that was often the case with travelers from beyond the Unkalaki ocean. She wore a long white coat, with large pockets and no buttons with which to close it, and beneath the soaked garment was some sort of hardy material serving as both trousers and shirt, with straps to connect the front to the back, moving over her shoulders. Around her soft neck were protective goggles, like the sort that some craftsman used in their work.

The stranger turned to lay on her back, staring up at the sky, and began to babble. “Sorry about that, not a great swimmer. Not much reason to learn where I’m from. But still, Realms crossed! Again! Not the worst Perpendicularity I’ve come across, let me tell you, but I’m certainly not eager about the return trip when this is all said and do—”

A second head popped up, coughing up water, and without a word Akilu and the first woman sprung into action, helping this other traveler avoid drowning in the Water of Life.

Once she was free of the ocean, this new figure had an obvious similarity to the first, a family resemblance. The same skin tone, the same hair, but with sharper features, a far thinner build, and an utterly different style of outfit. This one wore a dress that matched the dark hue of her hair, with a long billowing skirt and layers of fabric to it, the top-most one full of holes in some sort of pattern.

There was one other quality to this second woman that Akilu had never seen before, a sight she could never forget: whenever she moved, there was a trailing after-image to the motion, as though Akilu’s eyes needed a moment to catch up with what she did.

“Rust... and ruin... never again...” coughed out the second woman, before looking up at Akilu, making eye contact. “Thanks for the help.”

Looking from one figure to the other, Akilu considered if perhaps running to tell another was not still on the table.

While many travelers to come through their ocean were peaceful, Akilu knew that was far from a universal truth, and it was part of why her people retained a strength in arms, when warfare between peaks was so rare. There were stories, passed from generation to generation, of true monsters coming from the world of the gods, beasts they had barely been able to send back from whence they had come.

But then, as she looked into the other woman’s soft blue eyes, a wave of calm passed over Akilu, easily overwhelming her tension. No, these are no threats, she told herself, starting to smile. “It was simple help, no debt is owed. Welcome to our peak. I am Hualinam’lunanaki’akilu.” It was only polite to introduce oneself, after all.

“That name is so beautiful!” exclaimed the woman in the coat. Her voice was high-pitched, with an energy to it that reminded Akilu of boiling water. “I’d heard that the names of your people were all poems, and while I’m no authority on the subject, that one sounded quite sublime! I’m actually surprised that the Connection translated it as well as it did, though I’m also grateful, since—mmph!”

Before the rant could continue, the woman in the dress had sighed and covered the other's mouth with one dainty hand. “We accept your greeting, and your offer of clemency regarding your assistance.” In contrast to her companion, the taller of the two spoke with a rasping, husky voice, the tone polite but bored in the extreme. “It okay to call you Akilu?”

Akilu nodded.

“Cool. Well, you can call me Marionette, and this is my sister, Scalpel.” Then Marionette paused, looking at her sibling and removing the hand from her mouth. “It is still sister, right?”

Scalpel seemed to consider the question, before nodding energetically. “For the moment, yes!”

“Yeah, so, if isn’t too much trouble, could you help us get our luggage out of your—” As she spoke, Marionette turned to face the water, just in time to see a third figure getting out of the water, swimming with ease and retrieving one of the three trunks as she did so. “Oh, there you are. Can you... no, of course you can’t.” Her eyes flicked to Akilu. “She’s allergic to being useful, I swear. You any different?”

Akilu liked to think she was.

It didn’t take long to get their luggage from the water, with the sealed wood floating so close to the shore.

While they handled retrieving the trunks, a few strides away the women’s companion performed a private inventory of her own possessions. That last figure hid much of herself behind a dark traveling cloak, somewhere between the two sisters in height, and with what seemed to be a narrow build.

Once she had finished her task, it looked as though she was about to simply take her things and walk away. Seeing this, Marionette called out, “Hey, Miss Ironsights, you bailing?”

At the question, Ironsights stopped in her tracks, and turned to face them all for the first time.

The bottom fell out of Akilu’s stomach.

Ironsights’s hood had hidden it before, but now Akilu could clearly see just how fitting that name was. Two spikes seemed to protrude out from her sockets, like the ata’liki spoken of in stories. Dread beasts, nearly impossible to kill, with a delight for death and a strength that begged belief.

Then, Ironsights took a step closer, and Akilu realized she’d been wrong. Those weren’t truly metal spikes, but merely some sort of goggles, similar to the ones around Scalpel’s neck. They were clearly meant to emulate the exact sort of spikes Akilu had mistaken them as, with lenses made of thick black glass, rendering her eyes only barely visible through the material, and a strap that blended in with her light tan skin tone. “You hunt the bastard your way,” Ironsights told them, “I’ll hunt him mine.”

That said, Ironsights hoisted her trunk up on one shoulder, hers longer and thinner than those belonging to the two she had been traveling with, and strolled away.

“Well then, don’t fuck it up and warn him!” Marionette shouted, before muttering under her breath, “What a dramatic bitch.”

“An extremely deadly dramatic bitch, imminently capable of ending our lives without much effort,” Scalpel agreed, her cheery tone a sharp contrast to her sister’s. With seeming effortless ease, the frizzy-haired traveler picked up the remaining two trunks herself, one with each arm. Akilu blinked. She had helped lift those from the water, and she knew how heavy they were. This woman may... actually be stronger than I am, she considered, surprised at the revelation. “We should be heading out too!” Scalpel proclaimed, and then, without a word of goodbye, she turned to leave.

Akilu could see what was about to happen. Marionette would join her sister, perhaps giving a half-hearted farewell, and then Akilu would be left there by the shore once more, alone again, while the strangers found their own way.

She saw all of this, and chose another path, feeling now that the gods had heard her plea, and given her the answer she needed. “Do you need a guide?” That got them to stop. “You are... from far away, aren’t you? You could use my help.”

Scalpel giggled, the sound unrestrained, bubbling up with manic glee, before saying, “Oh, we absolutely could~! Plus, I’ve always wondered about—”

Once again, Marionette shut her sister up with a hand over her mouth. “We can speak any language here,” she said, tone dry. “Sure, a local helping us out would be handy. But we’re not on vacation. We came to this nightmare you live in to conduct an investigation, and while we won't try to get into more trouble than we have to, there's a good chance sticking near us will put your life in danger. Are you prepared for that?”

Suddenly, that calm Akilu had felt before began to subside, revealing in its wake the suspicion that had burned underneath. I know nothing about these people, she reminded herself. Where they are from, who it is they are seeking, why they would risk their life, and mine, in doing so.

And yet... with them, I would have a reason to leave. The gods gave me this opportunity. It would be disgraceful to abandon it. And yet, Akilu knew those were not the only reasons she was so tempted to pursue this idea.

Looking at these women, strangers from a land worlds away, Akilu was more curious than she could remember ever having been before. She yearned to see where this journey would take her with a fury that felt overwhelming. “I am. My father left the peak, as part of a foolish quest for Shards. My family mourns, but... I seek answers. I will not find them here.”

The sisters shared a look, Scalpel beaming, Marionette inscrutable, before the elder sister sighed. “Okay, sure. We’ll negotiate payment tonight. For now, help us with getting transport out of here. Unlike that bullet-brained bimbo, I’m not about to try walking down the slopes.”

They shook hands on the deal, and as Akilu found herself considering that sensation, Scalpel started to prattle once more.

“As I was saying earlier, I’ve heard things about your people, the so-called ‘Horneaters’, and the implications of this dietary novelty have gotten me thinking!” Scalpel giggled again, but now the mania within the sound was stronger, almost turning it into a cackle. “Would you mind if I examined your digestive system and took a few samples?”

The question should have disturbed Akilu, but as Marionette chastised her sister for saying ‘creepy shit to someone we just met’, Akilu could only look down at the hand that had shaken Marionette’s.

The other woman's hand has been cold, as lifeless as a stone.

Or a corpse.

Chapter Text

Part 2: The Night Delights

Karusar, Renarin, Adolin, Hesina

-13-

The Chain

“Started building my rep fresh on this miserable rock. Let the sawbones and the know-it-all play investigator if they’re so keen on it. If there’s one constant in the Cosmere, it’s that no matter where you go, there’s folks who should be eight feet under, and other folks happy to pay you for getting that job done. If the word on our target is right, he’ll reach out once he knows I’m here.”

—Ironsights’ personal log, entry written five days after arrival on Roshar, no local date listed

The day had been going well, right up until the arrows began to fall from the sky.

They were a hours out from Kholinar, and Karusar had been resting, lost in a dream full of nostalgia and frustration, up until shouts forced her eyes open, staring at the shaft of wood sticking down into the cart just a foot away from her face.

Sitting up, Karusar was buffeted by a musical cacophony filling her mind from her panicking sisters and a clamor from those in the cart with her, and with a cold focus she pushed all of that away, taking stock of the situation around her.

They were still on an ill-used road, close to the mountains, traveling through a lightly wooded section with barely level rock beneath them and rough hills to either side. Above them, the sun beat down on them from the center of the sky, Damnation's own humid summer heat baking them beneath its full attention.

Naln was still handling the horses, and he was half-ducking beneath the backrest at the front of the wagon, hoping it would shield him from enemy assault. The wagon kept jolting and shaking; it wasn't made for this high a speed over this difficult a terrain.

Mishim... no, the movements were too restrained, it looked as though Mishim had set and Salas had risen, took Hesina and Lirin to the back lip of the wagon, handing off Oroden to his parents, before looking back at Karusar.

The family wasn't taking the assault well. Lirin was clutching onto his wife as though eager to throw himself in the way of any projectile heading for her, Hesina was doing her best to keep herself concealed while calming her child, and the baby was crying.

Peeking over the back of the wagon, Karusar got a shape of the mess they were all in. Three horses, riders in front and bowmen behind, about a hundred feet behind us. They weren’t overtaking the wagon, but neither were they falling behind.

Their biggest advantages so far were the distance between them and their assailants, the high sides on the wagon they’d taken, and the poor aim of the ones firing those bows. It wasn't entirely the attackers' fault, firing from a horse was never exactly 'easy', and the uneven terrain couldn't be helping. At best, one in four of their shots were hitting the wagon, and even then, only the wood.

Of course, all it would take was one lucky shot, and someone would have an arrow stuck in them. Worse yet, one of the horses could get hit, and that could take this situation from manageable to utterly fucked.

It took a few seconds for a plan to coalesce, and after spending another moment or two to roughly review it, Karusar put it into action, crawling up to the front of the wagon.

“Naln, you think you can strafe back and forth?” Karusar asked him. The bookworm wasn’t very experienced with horses, and she didn’t want to ask more than he was capable of and send them careening off the road, poorly maintained as it may be.

Even without being able to see his stubbled face, Karusar could tell Naln was scrunching up his lips, thinking over his answer. “I can try. But there isn’t much room to maneuver.”

She tapped the wood that Naln rested against, and didn’t flinch when another arrow impacted less than a handspan away. This one was fired too hastily, and didn’t have enough power behind it to lodge itself in the wagon’s lacquered wood, instead bouncing off the side and rolling on the floor. “Do what you can. Try to make it erratic, whatever you do, something they can’t easily read.” That communicated, she shuffled backwards, towards the side where their trunks were secured, and started opening the one she shared with her sisters. “Hesina!”

“Yes?” the woman called back from behind her. Karusar could hear her fear, yet her words didn’t shake. She’s got emerald nerves, I’ll give her that.

“Give your son to Lirin, start collecting the arrows.” Digging around inside the trunk meant rising enough to be more visible to the riders, and they started concentrating their fire on Karusar, shots landing around her more often than not. The risk was worth it, as she finally found her quarry, pulling the long length of dark wood out along with a length of string. “I’m going to need them. Salas!”

She’d guessed right before, because as it approached her, Karusar could see no signs of mirth on its painted face, no humor in its dark eyes, only the quiet, unassuming presence she was used to from this member of the system. “What do you need me to do?” it asked her.

“Take these,” Karusar told it, her voice low and rough, handing Salas a bag the size of an axehound’s head, rattling with each jostle from the weapons it contained. “Be careful, those are sharp. Drop them over the back, do your best to get their storming hooves. Take it slow, and don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

It nodded to her. “Of course.” Then, with just a hint of a smile on its lips, Salas took the bag of caltrops and got to work.

That just left Karusar to string the bow as the others did as she asked, ducking low to avoid their slow shower of arrows as she worked. Karusar worried that the stab wound on her back might make this task harder than it had to be, the muscles needed to string the bow were in the same spot as her injury, and the last thing she needed was to rip out Lirin’s storming stitches in the middle of a fight.

But as she stretched the wood, heaving with every ounce of strength to get the string properly tied off, her back didn’t complain. Strange... she’d need to check later, but had the damn injury already healed? Again? That was unsettling. Helpful, but too unsettling by half.

That was when her sweaty fingers slipped, and Karusar let out a string of curses foul enough to make Vun Makak blush before trying again. This time she didn't fuck it up, and was left with a weapon perfect for the task at hand, a longbow made from drop-dead wood. That had always felt fitting to her.

“Arrows?” she called out, and Hesina was by her side in moments, passing her a handful.

Their gazes met, and one side of the older woman’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Can you use that thing?”

Danahui might be a thrice-damned fool, Karusar thought to herself, but she was right. Hesina is beautiful.

More than that, she was the kind of beautiful that proved so frustrating for Karusar. A wife and a mother, but one with grit. If worse came to worst, Karusar had a feeling that Hesina would not go to her Tranquiline Halls quietly. This was, in Karusar's unhumble opinion, one of the most attractive traits a woman could have.

With a huff through her nose, Karusar gave Hesina a smile to match her own, one tempered by the danger they found themselves in. “Just watch me.” Then, she stood and got to work.

All three horses were still there, and Karusar’s brain worked feverishly, trying to take into account the shaking of the wagon beneath her, the movement of the horses and their riders, the distance, the wind... I’m not an expert, but I think I can take at least one of them, maybe two. She hated being so unsure, but it was better to be realistic than to overestimate her abilities. The worst part was, she only had five arrows so far, five shots before she had to try digging through the trunk again to find her personal stash or wait for Hesina to give her more.

From her peripheral vision, Karusar could see Salas continuing to drop small handfuls of sharp metal spikes over the back, peeking and moving to try and get better angles each time.

“Won’t that hurt the horses?” Lirin asked, voice hushed but simmering with more unfriendly emotions.

Salas clicked its tongue in reply. “That’s the idea.”

“Kelek’s breath,” the surgeon swore. “And what of others who travel this path? What of where those weapons would blow in the next highstorm?”

There was no answer for that. At least, not any good ones. Sure, this was a less traveled road, so ill-used that nature had begun to reclaim it, but he was right. Even if they found no innocent feet or hooves here, they wouldn’t be here for long.

At the end of the day, Karusar was forced to choose between their lives, here and now, and the potential ramifications of loosing those caltrops on the world.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. It was still one that would haunt her for nights to come.

Karusar did her best to keep her mind on the task in front of her, on the men who were trying to kill her, and not on the stormwall sending her own weapons out to where they might find the feet of some innocent child. The enemies all had shortbows, and though she was certainly in danger standing up as she did, with the back wall of the wagon only covering up to her hips, their shots were going wide enough to be a minor concern.

At least, that was what she thought until one of them curved in a sudden breeze and sliced down her side. Good thing I slept in the storming armor. The shot had missed chainmail, but the boiled leather was thick enough that she doubted the arrow even drew blood. Regardless, the point was made. There wasn’t time to keep waiting for a lucky caltrop or a sudden even patch of road that would make the wagon stop shaking. It was time to put up, or shut up.

Kneeling to reduce her visibility to their foes, Karusar nocked an arrow, drawing back on the string. The weight was intense, but it wasn’t as if Karusar’s physique was just for show. The training she put her body through was exactly for moments like these, and while holding the string back for more than a few seconds would prove tiring, she had enough time to properly aim her shot and fire.

The first arrow flew just as they hit a rockbud, the wagon jolting from underneath her and sending the shot wild. Karusar frowned, but kept her eyes on the target, the horse in front, and tried again.

The second arrow flew closer, passing an opponent's shot, which narrowly avoided Karusar’s cheek. Her arrow hit neither horse nor human, but it was a near enough miss to get the lead rider to slow their pace, earning more distance between them. Good, but she could do better.

The third arrow passed just over the head of the her target, a twitch of the fingers away from having been a perfect headshot. Karusar’s scowl deepened, and a burning frustration rose in the pit of her stomach. I can do better than this.

As Karusar nocked her fourth arrow, Salas’s diligent efforts finally paid off. The horse on the left suddenly let out a terrible sound, the creature’s pace slowing so quickly that the rider barely held on with the sudden change in momentum, and the bowman was far less fortunate. The short man slipped off the horse at full speed, tumbling to the stones with a bounce and a crunch.

Just the opportunity I needed. As the rider on the right reacted to this, turning his head to stare in dismay, Karusar loosed her shot, and for once, the wagon’s shaky motion didn’t fuck her raw. No, instead the arrow found a perfect purchase, directly into the rider’s chest. The man started to slump in his saddle, the reins falling from his hands, and the bowman dropped his weapon in his haste to take over, while using an arm to try and keep his ally up. They too slowed and fell behind.

That just left one set of foes left, and Karusar could have sworn she met the last bowman's eyes despite the distance.

She watched as he wrapped something around his next shot, fiddling with his pack, and it wasn’t until the flame ungulfed his missile that Karusar could see what the man was trying to do.

Oh, Shalash’s bleeding balls, you’ve got to be storming kidding me.

Oil and fire? Had the man lost his mind?! Trying that on horseback was a good way to self-immolate by mistake, and even if he was able to get off the shot, the added weight and shape of the cloth would throw off the arrow’s flight.

Karusar blinked. Of course... he doesn’t need to hit a specific target. If that thing hits any part of the wagon, we’re all fucked ten ways from Middlefest.

The man started to line up his shot, and Karusar had a horrible, sinking suspicion that this time, he was going to hit what he was aiming for. Mind racing, she tried to think of something, anything she could do. There was maybe, possibly, a chance to use her last arrow to get him first, but... no, there was no chance she could even draw before he loosed. That was the drawback of her powerful bow: it simply lacked the speed of what it faced.

Half a second before the flaming arrow left the string, Karusar had an epiphany.

It was a terrible idea, there was no doubt about that, but it was the only one she had.

Dropping the last arrow she held, Karusar bent at the knees, ready to move, quickly, muscles tensing. Then, mind on a night nearly two months before where she had dueled a figure of iridescent black beneath a dark night’s sky empty of any moon, Karusar breathed in sharply, and felt something change.

A clarity came to her thoughts, immediately, a speed of wit that was normally beyond her. This plan of hers, though desperate and unlikely, was possible. But only because of the state she was in.

Inside her veins, burning and energizing, was a tempest, lending her speed, power, precision. As the flaming missile was loosed she was able to track where it was going (behind her, set to hit the backrest that Naln was leaning on the other side of) and move to intercept it.

It felt impossible. Intellectually, Karusar knew no human should be able to snatch an arrow from the air, even one fired by a shortbow.

And yet.

Her fingers grasped the burning cloth, and while there was a momentary sting of heat and flame, the arrow was moving too fast, slipping through her fingers, and in a fraction of a second, only plain wood lay beneath her grip.

It was a near thing. At the last moment, just before the fletching ran out, she got a solid hold on it, and its momentum became hers. She took it, used it, raising one leg and pulling into a tight spin, before stomping her foot down to stop the momentum.

The arrow was hers, still alight, still deadly, and the storm inside Karusar pushed her to keep moving. After all, she wasn’t done yet, and the bowman was in the process of making a second ignited missile.

In a motion so smooth it looked as though she had practiced it a hundred times, Karusar assumed a proper firing stance, knocking the arrow into her own bow, and fired the moment she thought she had a clear line on the target.

Flame and wood moved twice as fast as they had just moments before, and this time there was nothing to be had but satisfaction as the arrow struck the very man who had just held it, igniting his clothing, and in his recoil of pain, the open bottle of oil splashed everywhere.

With an audible rush, fire engulfed the man, and the rider before him, and the horse they rode on. They fell to the stone below them, and before Karusar knew it, out of sight as their own steeds raced onwards.

Karusar waited, eyes on the path behind, but there was no sign of their pursuers redoubling their efforts, not even after nearly a minute of watching. “It’s done.”

“We should go back,” Lirin said, standing up, passing his son to his wife as he turned to look in the direction of their fallen foes.

The tempest still ran through Karusar, wild and fierce, and perhaps it was because of the itch it gave her, the push to act, that she stepped up to Lirin, invading his personal space so she could look down at the short, balding man with naked contempt.

Or perhaps she would have done that anyway. He did piss her off, after all.

“No, we shouldn’t, and we aren’t.” Her tone was flat, hard, and she was scowling so hard that it was actually starting to make her facial muscles ache.

“You just set them on fire!” Lirin protested. “Heralds above, are you mad? We’re a days ride from any sign of civilization, those men will die if we don’t—”

Karusar grabbed the front of Lirin’s shirt, pulling him closer, holding him tight, glaring down into his dark eyes. “Yes. They will. I’m not sure if you storming noticed, but they were just trying to kill us.”

“And that makes it right?” Lirin asked, and she could see he wasn’t about to back down.

Too bad for him. “I don’t give a skyeel’s shit if it’s ‘right’ or not, because it is happening. We go back looking to treat them, there’s no guarantee they’ll repay your kindness with anything but a knife in your back. More to the point, it’ll give more time for their storming friends to find us. We ride on.”

“We ride on,” Salas echoed seriously.

Naln sighed, but he didn’t disagree. “We ride on.”

The surgeon set his jaw, and tried to pull away from Karusar, looking towards his wife. “If this is the kind of ‘protection’ you’re offering, we don’t want it. Drop us off now, we’ll go back towards those men and turn ourselves in. Whatever it is they want with us, we’ll take our chances.”

From the periphery of her vision, Karusar could see Hesina’s eyes going wide, her gloved safehand clenching, but whether she was about to agree with her husband or tell him he was being a hog-headed buffoon, Karusar didn't learn.

Because instead, she lifted the man up into the air by the front of his shirt, and she shook him. Hard.

This, at least, rattled the man, and as he met her gaze, she could finally see fear. “I don’t think you’re understanding what’s going on. And honestly, that’s my sister’s fault. So let me clear this up.” Her voice was kept quiet, a rumbling baritone that matched her glare.

They still don’t get it. They still think I’m Danahui, happy to let them walk all over me. The thought soured her stomach.

Time to demonstrate the reality. “I’ve been hired to take you to the Shattered Plains and make sure you get there alive. I’ll be cursed to Damnation and back a dozen times before I let you just walk into your deaths. You have a son.” She turned Lirin around, pointing him at Oroden, who was clinging tightly to Hesina, crying.

“Don’t talk to me about—” Lirin started, but Karusar didn’t let him finish.

She turned him back to face her and shook him again, harder. “No! Your daughter, who you haven’t seen since she was a storming teenager, is waiting for you! If you think there’s a future where I show up empty handed, where I have to look that woman in the eyes and tell her I lost your sorry asses, then think again! You’re going with us, even if I have to tie you up and force food down your motherfucking throats.” Then she dropped him, leaving Lirin to fall on his ass.

The strength, the storm, subsided, and Karusar was left feeling drained, as worn out as if she’d pushed her body to the brink of exhaustion.

“Daughter?” Hesina breathed, looking up at Karusar in confusion. She’s scared of me too.

“...I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.” Karusar turned away, blinking tears from her eyes, and moved to the front of the cart. “Naln, I’m taking over. Salas, explain plurality to these storming idiots while I cool off.”

No one objected. In fact, though they did their best to hide it, Karusar saw a shred of fear in even her friends’ eyes as they regarded her. The chain that bound them all together still held, but how many outbursts like that before it snapped?

Guilt sat in her stomach, not helped by the worried chords of her little sister. “I know, Nesh. I went too far...” she whispered, settling into the seat and taking stock of the horses. They could keep at the speed they were at for a while more, but she had to be careful. Soon, they’d need to rest.

It was better to focus on that, on the practicalities of the situation before them, rather than the emotions roiling inside her still. Anger. Resentment. Grief.

Worse yet were the impossible reverberations of sound from Ana, haughty and proud, telling Karusar she’d done nothing wrong. Been a bit too blunt, perhaps, but it had been necessary to quash any of Lirin's foolish ideas.

Somehow, coming from her, that only made Karusar feel worse.

Chapter Text

-14-

Unseen Agony

“Though my species can be found on such an astoundingly vast number of planets throughout the Cosmere, few have the variation in human adaptation demonstrated on Roshar. Sadly, Akilu has refused every request thus far for a vivisection in the name of research (NO MATTER HOW NICELY I ASK HER), and we left the Peaks too quickly to find a willing participant. (“Something strange is going on.” -Akilu) Due to these hindrances, the mystery behind Unkalaki digestion shall have to remain just that. FOR NOW.”

—Scalpel’s Research Log, Pronouns of the day: he/him, written seven days after arriving, local date Betabesan 1173

Sitting with back straight, head raised, and spectacles perched atop his nose, Renarin prepared himself for the impending stormwall.

“There's much to do, Brightlord,” Kalami said, voice tense, entering the room while carrying a large stack of papers.

And this is only the morning itinerary, Renarin reminded himself. He and Kalami were not alone, such a thing was no longer permitted. No, now the second son required constant guards, scribes on-hand, all the accoutrements expected of someone in his newfound position.

“To begin with something pleasant, reinforcements from the princedom have reported in. They are only a week’s march away.”

Renarin nodded. We sent for them the day after the Massacre. It's a miracle we’ve held out this long without them, and yet...

It was difficult to be glad for this news, or to even pretend it. When they returned, Renarin would be their de facto commander, a role he had such little experience in. He would either flounder while attempting to acclimate to the position, or he would do the same thing he had done so many times in the past weeks: trusting another to do a duty that was rightfully his.

Without consciously realizing it, Renarin had retrieved his cube from a pocket, his thumb rubbing the roughly textured side as he thought. “I am not brightlord.”

“Not in name, no,” Kalami retorted, eyes narrowed. “Nonetheless, you had best get used to hearing it.”

She's given up on Father. Just like everyone else. It wasn't a surprise.

With no body recovered, Elhokar had made the decision to give until Lightday before declaring Father dead. If the day came without the Blackthorn’s return, Renarin would be made Highprince of the Kholin princedom.

The thought soured his stomach.

Father is alive. But how could he make anyone else see that? How could he explain the source of his knowledge, when even he struggled to grasp it?

“What is next?” Renarin asked, voice quiet. There was no point in fighting Kalami.

Everyone thought he was poor at reading the emotions of others, the rhythm to their conversations and their expectations, but even Renarin could see himself through Kalami’s eyes.

There was no respect, no patience. The woman saw him as a weak figurehead, the worst option who had stumbled through tragedy into the seat of power, and she would help him keep the warcamp running because that was her duty.

He almost admired her for that.

Kalami’s eyes were fixed on his box, displeasure obvious, yet she shuffled around her papers and moved to the next point. “There are reports of corpse-hunters failing to report the discovery of high ranking lighteyes, and simply robbing their bodies. As we do not invasively search the chasm delvers as other camps do, it is relatively easy for them to get away with this.”

“And?” Renarin asked. Kalami would not simply inform him of an issue like this. There was more.

“And we have apprehended several of such thieves. Considering the gravity of their crimes, and the station of who they stole from, their judgment falls within your hands.”

Turning the cube over in his hand, Renarin started idly flipping the switch on it, back and forth, back and forth. “Judgment? They could be accused falsely. Set up by others. Even if they are responsible, what drove them to such acts?” He mumbled the words under his breath, too quiet for Kalami to hear.

“Prince Renarin?” she pressed, impatient.

“I will look into this further,” he assured her, eyes focusing on the wood grain of the desk before him, rather than Kalami. “If I lose track of it among my other tasks, remind me of it.” This, he could do. Why he felt so sure of that, Renarin did not know, but compared to so much else that burdened him, the prince almost relished such a task.

With a sigh, Kalami turned to the next matter on the docket. “Regarding the familial relief for those who gave their lives at the Tower...”

Renarin felt uncomfortable in his clothing.

Which was strange, considering just a month ago, it had fit perfectly fine.

Now, as he strolled through the Kholin warcamp, accompanied by a full retinue of guards and scribes and Important People, Renarin felt an itch that made him want to claw off the stiff blue coat, the immaculate shirt underneath, and perhaps his skin while he was at it.

“It's a lovely day,” Danlan spoke up, still keeping pace with him.

That was another thing.

Clenching and unclenching his hands in a rhythm, Renarin did his best not to sound too miserable as he replied, “The weather is nice.”

Could a warm summer day truly do anything to make up for the atmosphere around them?

The only soldiers they passed were the few who had been kept behind from the Tower, staying to patrol and protect the Kholin warcamp.

A thick and cloying air of grief utterly consumed the streets. People were subdued, even in the busy marketplace. Everywhere he looked, Renarin found the normally stoic Alethi with red eyes and tear-stricken faces, or stumbling by, drunk and disorderly. The grasping orange hands of painspren were abundant, clutching at heads, towards their unseen agony. Reports of fire moss usage among the soldiers was becoming an inferno, and Renarin didn't know how to stop it.

How could he? It was not as if his lot was any better, despite his position.

Tears were rare, but they came, in moments when he didn't expect them. More weakness. I should simply abdicate. Do as they always wanted and join the ardentia. Safely tucked away, where the fate of the house does not rest on my shoulders.

But no. If he were to do that, who would the princedom fall to? Adolin was still away, indisposed. Elhokar could not hold crown and capital, not openly. His son was an infant, and—

“...news from your brother, Prince Renarin?”

—and Danlan was still talking. Trying to catch his attention. Perhaps his affection. He turned his head away from her. “He is on the way, though exactly when he will arrive is still uncertain.”

“Well, if you would not terribly mind, I would appreciate further company in his absence. Perhaps we could meet at a winehouse?”

Despite his interest in wines, in the techniques that went into making them and the ways one could learn to know their flavor without ever letting a drop touch the tongue, Renarin was not particularly interested in drinking, and even less interested in doing so with the woman who had been clinging so tightly to his older brother.

Still, Renarin did as was expected, and agreed.

Better to accept the inevitable.

The palace was never safe.

“Ah, young Renarin, how good to see you!” Sadeas exclaimed, an insincere smile splitting his ruddy face.

Case in point.

Renarin stopped in the hallway, acutely aware of the tension brewing between his guards and the soldiers with Sadeas. “Hello, Highprince.” He managed to avoid mumbling the words.

It wasn't the first time they’d seen each other since the Massacre of the Tower, not by a faint breath or a stormwind. Sadeas had given his apology and his condolences for his ‘inaction’, quite publicly, but at least that performance had ended.

Now, the man seemed interested only in gloating. “Tell me, how goes refortifying your forces? Quite the large task to be handed so soon into your rule.”

I am sure that you are already working to plant as many spies as you can in our new recruits, Renarin thought.

“My aunt is assisting with the effort.” Among others. “Did you need anything pressing of me, Highprince? I have much to be about.”

“Need of you? No, no I suppose I do not.” Sadeas’s smirk was utterly victorious. “To be entirely honest, I am shocked anyone has any need of you at all.”

The remark chilled the air, and Renarin could sense a mood for violence ready to erupt from his retinue, red pools of angerspren boiling from the ground underneath them.

Should he not feel the same?

This man, this smug, slimy skyeel in fancy silks and fashionable coats, had caused unthinkable amounts of misery. His ploy, so simple yet so effective, had killed thousands of men, crippled House Kholin, and given a full set of Shards to the Parshendi. Even knowing his father wasn't dead, Renarin had no idea where he was, and the options on the table were not exactly palatable.

Yet he was not Adolin. No fire swam through his veins, no Thrill urged him to seek vengeance, no fantasies of violence played in his thoughts.

No, looking at Torol Sadeas, there was only one word to describe how Renarin felt.

Empty.

Eventually, by the grace and the good of the Almighty, Renarin was left alone.

Sitting in his personal chambers, he stripped off the uniform he’d worn all day, down to just an undershirt and trousers. Taking off his glasses, the room became a collection of colors, shapes indistinct, as Renarin rested his head in his hands.

“I can't do this,” he admitted to himself. “I have to, but I can't.”

A blur of red appeared in the air near him. “Okay. It will be. You will be.”

Blinking, Renarin put his spectacles back on, and found the crystal floating near his face, ethereal and dripping light up towards the ceiling. “How can you know that, Glys?” He didn't know yet what to think of the spren, one only he could see, nor how to accept the things they did together.

“It will be,” Glys repeated, tone insistent.

Such optimism. Renarin smiled, thinking of Adolin. “At least one of us is confident of that.”

The reply must have been enough for Glys, for he faded from view, remaining only as a presence Renarin could barely sense.

What did it say of his life that the brightest sphere came from what could easily be a sign of his own madness?

Before he could contemplate this further, there was a knock, though not at the door.

No, that was the sound of flesh on glass. Confused, Renarin rose, approaching the large window in his room, pointing to the west. He was not at all prepared for what he found.

A woman floated there, thirty feet above the ground, her skin glowing in the dark of night with... with Stormlight.

The flying woman was tall, remarkably so, with sharp features and a slim build. She wore not a havah, despite her bright blue light eyes, but a purple dress with more volume in the sleeves, less tightly tailored to the torso. Over one shoulder, a brown pack was slung, full fit to bursting.

She gestured towards the glass, and without missing a beat Renarin unlatched the window, opening it to let in the cool night air... and the woman, who pulled herself into the room and stood, her glow subsiding as she breathed out the rest through her mouth. The Stormlight dissipated in the open air, like a concentrate diluting into water.

Renarin looked at her, eyes wide, saying nothing.

“Prince Renarin?” she asked. He nodded. “Good. It would have been awkward if I went to the wrong warcamp.” Looking around the room, the woman arched an eyebrow. “I’m... a little shocked you're alone. No guards? What if I had been an assassin?”

“Something tells me,” Renarin spoke, voice quiet, “that if you were, there would be nothing a few extra men could do about it.” Then, after mulling it over, he added, “You're a Knight Radiant.”

The woman waved the idea away with her bare freehand. “I'm a Surgebinder. According to your cousin, calling ourselves ‘Radiants’ might be both premature and ill-advised.” She sounded skeptical on whether that was accurate, but willing to go along with the idea regardless. A familiar attitude, if she was speaking of who Renarin thought she was.

“You know Jasnah?” It wouldn’t be very shocking, if so. Jasnah knew many strange people.

“Oh, right.” Reaching into her safehand pouch, the woman produced a letter, handing it to Renarin. “You should get a scribe you trust to read this to you, as a start. There's a lot to catch you up on.”

Taking the piece of correspondence, Renarin knew already who he would request for such a task, even if his Mashala would be piqued at the summons this late in the day. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched.

Renarin coughed. “And, you are?”

“Kaladin,” the woman told her, consternation written clearly across her face. “I'm the woman who pulled your family into this mess.”

Still unaware just what sort of trouble Kaladin was speaking of, Renarin gave a light shrug. “To be entirely honest, at this point, I welcome the variety.”

Despite his calm demeanor, inside his heart pulsed with fear and anticipation.

Surgebinder?

Chapter Text

-18-

You Look like Trouble

TWELVE YEARS AGO

An attack came in from the left, but Karusar saw it coming, and was already moving right.

What she missed was the leg extended in the direction she was stepping, and in a blur of motion she fell to the stone. The impact rattled her senses, and she knew the next day, she’d find bruises in the mirror.

“Again,” she groaned, already getting to her feet, ready to try again.

Her opponent didn’t have any problem with that, judging by the cocky grin. Beynith was the only girl in the company around Karusar’s age, but that was about the only thing the two had in common. The shorter girl fit in better with the majority of Nakku’s Nails, with her dark brown skin and locks of black hair. Darkeyed, of course, yet there was a depth to the hue, and a mirth that Karusar found infuriating.

Shifting from one foot to another, Karusar didn’t understand why she wasn’t able to win. It didn’t make any sense. The year she’d spent as a mercenary, with full meals and all the training she could ever want, had only exacerbated the way she’d already been developing. I’m tall, I’m strong, I’ve got longer reach... so why can’t I hit her?! The absurdity of it put a scowl on her face.

Those were getting easier, too. The effortless smiles and silly speaking of Danahui had been a hard habit to kick, but now the very idea of them made her cringe in embarrassment. She was thirteen, and now all of that felt like childish nonsense.

Nearby, a woman with gray starting to pepper her long black hair and the sort of wrinkles that came with excessive frowning swore to the Kadasixes under her breath before addressing Karusar. “This is the last one.” Her lightly accented Veden was gruff, tinged with exhaustion.

Adjusting her grip on her sword, Karusar nodded, rolling her shoulders. That would help, right? She just had to loosen up. “Sure. After all, this time I’m going to win.”

With a shake of her head and a motion of her hand, Elix signaled the spar to begin.

As before, Beynith stayed where she was, posture relaxed, longsword tipped down towards the ground. Their gazes met, and the Azish girl winked at Karusar.

Scowling, Karusar charged.

Both were wearing padded armor, using blunted longswords. The day before, it had been spears, and last week Karusar had been working with different types of bows. Around them, several other practice fights were taking place, while others attacked faux foes made of wood and cloth.

Nakku’s Nails rewarded those who put in the time to improve, but Karusar would have been there sparring even if they didn’t. With her time as a musician relegated to the occasional song in the barrack or night in a town’s tavern, she itched to fill her time with something productive. And, if she was going to learn a new skill, shouldn’t she push herself to be the best she possibly could?

That’s what Mother would have wanted.

The sword felt right in her grip in a way a spear or a warhammer didn’t, and she used it to unleash a flurry of attacks on her opponent. A thrust, a swipe, a stab. As she executed them, one after another, blood rushed through her veins, each breath felt a tempest, and her short red hair was getting slick with sweat. Karusar felt mighty, she felt unstoppable.

“Ha!” Beynith didn’t seem to agree. She slipped out of the way of each strike, sometimes narrowly, sometimes by a staggering degree. And the moment Karusar stopped, the moment she took a breath to plan, to gather herself, to redouble her efforts, Beynith was on her.

It took everything Karusar had in her to parry the skillful strikes, stepping back and back until...

“...and the match goes to Beynith,” Elix announced, tone bored.

Confused, Karusar looked down, and belatedly realized that at some point, Beynith had pulled out her side knife, which she was now holding to Karusar’s unprotected side.

Stepping back, Beynith sheathed both her weapons, then flourished a mock bow to Karusar. The Azish girl shot off a staccato sentence in her native tongue, then gave a high pitched cackle and walked away.

Turning to the fight’s arbiter, Karusar spat, “What did she just say to me?!” Angerspren began to boil on the ground around her.

“She compared you to your practice sword.” Elix was almost the same height as Karusar, a fact that seemed to count among that immense number of things that annoyed her, along with the fact she was being asked to translate this joke. “It’s a pun that doesn’t make sense in Veden.”

It felt like Beynith told a lot of those, and she laughed riotously at every single one. “Summarize it for me, please?” Karusar was learning to say that a lot more, lately. Working with Westerners meant getting used to being polite, even when it felt like her patience was drying up faster, day by day.

Elix sighed. “She called you slow-witted and oafish. Now then, did you want feedback, or am I free to eat my Yaezir-blessed lunch?”

Feeling chastised by the remark, Karusar nodded her head. That’s the point of this, isn’t it? To improve. “Why can’t I beat her?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“You’re playing by her rules.” Elix took Karusar’s sword, and walked off to put it with the other training equipment. The thirteen-year old girl followed behind, eagerly soaking up every drop of wisdom her elder was willing to give her. “She’s got more experience, and she’s better at thinking on her feet. When you charge in, sword flailing, she can trust in her ability to weather the storm. Then it’s her turn, and you’re on the backfoot.”

Nodding her head, the air rippled around Karusar’s head, like droplets of water hitting a pond. She ignored the concentrationspren, and instead kept her mind on her memory of the fight. “I can’t rely on my physique, can I?”

“Against someone of similar skill and age? Then you’ll have an advantage. But the playing field tilts in her direction, child.” With a gesture from her hand, Elix waited for Karusar to strip off the practice armor, leaving her clad in a sweat-soaked undershirt, then finished returning the borrowed material. “Learn her movements. Think through how you want to win before you even enter the ring. And most importantly, keep practicing.” Elix graced Karusar with a wane smile, then left to eat her meal.

Learn. Think. Practice.

She could do that.

In the aftermath of her sparring, Karusar left the company tents to head into the nearby city.

After all, heading back to her bunk or going to the mess for food might mean running into Beynith again, and if the shorter girl laughed at one more joke she’d just made at Karusar’s expense, then Azish law be damned, Karusar couldn’t be held responsible for the ensuing fistfight.

For the moment, Nakku’s Nails were settled in Marabethia, working an assortment of guarding and patrol positions as assigned to them by a local functionary.

It was a simple rhythm to fall into. The company would take on a job for a specific length of time, then get on the march, heading towards their next scheduled mission. Karusar had asked once, apparently Nakku’s Nails was proudly booked for the next two years, and they had a waiting list for further work.

Karusar enjoyed it. Considering her age, she didn’t have to put in as many hours as the adults did, but she still got paid.

It had bent her brain a little, at first. The money was good, and if she stayed on until the end of her tour, the bonus was mind-boggling, with incentives for back-to-back contracts. If she got hurt in the course of duty, they would cover the expenses. How could that possibly work?

Asking others, Karusar got two different stories to explain it all.

The optimists pointed out the benefits of happy, well-cared employees. The owners of the company were investing in them, with food and training and equipment, so of course it made sense to try and keep them on as long as possible.

The pessimists pointed out the clauses in the contract that Karusar had missed. If she was rendered unfit for duty due to an out of work injury, if she was kicked out due to poor behavior, or if she otherwise left the tour early, then she owed the company a large fine for breach of contract.

Hands in the pockets of her trousers, Karusar entered the market square, barely listening as someone had taken to the debate pedestal to proclaim something loudly. Her grasp of the local tongue wasn’t great, but it seemed like his issues were with the local king, complaints about his taxation and the way he spent it.

The public debating was a strange custom, but Karusar didn’t mind it. At least she’d escaped Vorin lands before reaching the age where a glove was necessary. She shivered at the thought. Flyvn was right, safehands are nonsense.

There wasn’t anything in particular Karusar was after. She had spheres she could spend, sure, but Karusar saw little point in doing that. Her needs were taken care of.

Instead, she just let her eyes pass over the stalls, happy for the walk. Merchants sold cloth and books and fruit and—

“Do you think there’s anything you can say on one of those things that’s so bad, they don’t let you finish?” asked a voice from one side, speaking in Karusar’s native Veden.

Blinking, Karusar turned her head, and found a girl leaning against a support pole of a produce stand, an overripe fruit in her hand.

This girl looked to be Alethi, or maybe Veden. Darker skin than Karusar’s, but not as deep a brown as her Azish comrades. Solid black hair, and though she was a good half a foot shorter than Karusar, something about her wiry build made her think this girl was about as old as Karusar pretended to be, fifteen or so.

Seeing the girl’s light tan eyes sent a momentary shiver of fear through Karusar, but judging by her too-big coat and masculine style of dress, it didn’t seem likely that this was anyone important.

“Well?” she asked, idly tossing up the fruit and catching it with her ungloved safehand. “Or do you not speak Veden? I hope not, I can’t speak more than three words in Horneater.”

“I speak Veden fine,” Karusar replied, frowning. “Also, we’re not called ‘Horneaters’, we’re ‘Unkalaki’.” Sure, her own mastery of her mother’s language was poor, rusty with lack of use, but she couldn’t let the insult go unchallenged.

The girl rolled her eyes. “See, you say that, but I’ve heard lots of people talk about your folk, and they never use that fancy word. Not unless they’re trying to get something out of them.” Then she offered the fruit to Karusar. “Want to give it a throw?”

“Why would I? I don’t give a cremling’s shit what he has to say.” The swear felt a little forced, but it earned a smile out of the older girl. Why does that make me happy? I don’t even like her.

She got a shrug in return. “You look like you’re in a bad mood, and could use a friendly fruit toss to feel better.”

“Yeah, well, you look like trouble.” After all, what was an Alethi girl, a lighteyed Alethi girl, doing in this middle-of-nowhere Marabethian city? Of course, a lot of people would say the same about me. Karusar let out a huff. “Why do you care if I’m in a bad mood, anyway?”

Tossing the fruit back over her shoulder, where it splatted to the ground a few feet away, the girl took a few steps forward, gaze focused on Karusar. “Maybe because you’re cute, in a rough-and-tumble, could punch out a chull sort of way.” Karusar’s heart skipped a beat, and her copper cheeks darkened with a blush. “Or maybe it’s because you’re not from around here either. Or... maybe it’s because you’re a merc,” she nodded to where the company was camped outside the city, “and I’d rather be in your good graces.”

Crossing her arms in front of her, a motion which showed off what muscle she’d been able to build on them, Karusar shrugged her wide shoulders. “You think a single thrown fruit is going to charm me? Wow, I’m flattered. What’s next, are you going to distract me by dangling something shiny in front of my eyes?” She did her best to keep her voice low and bored, even as her heart started to beat faster.

“Point taken, grumpy girl.” She offered a hand. “Want to show me around? I’m new to the area.”

“I guess,” Karusar replied, taking the offered hand. “But fair warning, there’s not much here to see.”

The other girl looked up at Karusar, and the mid-afternoon sun put a sparkle in her eyes. “I don’t know about that.” The curve of her smile gave Karusar an idea as to just what she meant.

They spent the rest of the day together, and when they parted, they did so with a kiss.

It was Karusar’s first. She fell fast, and she fell hard.

What a mistake that turned out to be.

Chapter Text

-16-

Indignation, Shame, Grief, Curiosity

“We’re finally off the mountain. I’ve never been so glad to wander a flat, barren plain. Though, I guess for Roshar, this area is pretty lush in terms of flora. Rust and ruin, growing up in the Basin spoiled me. I’ve got a list of complaints for Harmony as long as my arm, but I’ve got to give it to the bastard, he crafted a paradise.”

—Marionette’s Travelogue, next objective: find local operatives, written ten days after arriving, local date Betabesah 1173

Adolin couldn’t remember the first time they’d learned how to walk, so they had no real point of comparison to their current situation.

Still they could at least say, with some confidence, that it probably would have been a lot easier if they weren’t practicing on a ship. On more occasions than they could count, they’d actually have their feet under them, actually feel sure of their step, and then a wave would rock the boat, leaving Adolin to fall on their ass.

Luckily, that was no longer a factor.

Their steps were still slow, unsteady, as another opened the door for them and Adolin stepped into the small room. The interior was dimly lit, using torches rather than spheres, and in that flickering light, there sat a man.

A week or so before, he would have been easy to miss, easily blending in with the other Thaylen sailors on the Wind’s Pleasure.

That had changed when he had tried to kill Shallan.

After that, Adolin was certain they could pick him out of a crowd. He was shorter than Adolin, but squatter, thicker. His black hair was horribly taken care of, matted and clumped from so much time at sea, and hung around his head like a foreboding cloud. He still wore the garb he’d had on when the attack had happened, now dirty from overuse, and even among the sailors, who tended to cultivate mighty thews as part of their work, his arms were notably muscled.

Of course, such strength was little help, considering he was bound to a chair by a thick ship’s rope.

As the door shut behind Adolin, the man opened his eyes, then tried to speak. Or yell. Or make any other sound that was clearly audible in spite of the cloth gag in his mouth.

Adolin winced, wishing they had more than one working arm as they staggered closer. It would be nice to use the room’s table or bed as handholds along their path. Adolin’s hand carried a small bowl of lightly spiced steamed tallew. “Breakfast, Vlatn.”

The Thaylen man narrowed his eyes at Adolin, his long white eyebrows trailing down the sides of his face.

“Vlatn...” Adolin sighed, sitting on the bed. It felt good to take the pressure off their legs, even if they’d only been standing for a few minutes. They set the bowl down, and gave the man a pitying look. “You know how this goes. I take off the gag, feed you, and ask you some questions. And in return, you...?”

The bound and gagged man said nothing.

“Exactly.”

Then Adolin reached out and worked the gag out of the man’s mouth.

Immediately, Vlatn started taking large gulps of air. Adolin waited patiently for his breathing to stabilize, then started spooning the food to the man’s mouth.

For the first half of the bowl, it went quickly, quietly. They’d done this enough by now for it to almost become rote.

Then, Vlatn chuckled. “You know, I never expected to be fed by royalty.” His accent wasn’t as thick as some of the real sailors had been, but he still mashed a lot of the sounds in his words together in that distinctly Thaylen way.

“I bet Jasnah would say something about how you already are.” They could see the confusion in the assassin’s eyes as he took in another spoonful. “Since we’re basically in control of the Soulcasters.” Adolin didn’t sound entirely sure about the idea, mostly because they weren’t.

After the last spoonful of dull mush, Vlatn rolled his dark blue eyes. “The Ardentia has the Soulcasters. You are just...” He paused, worn face scrunching up, before speaking quickly. “...abusing! That is it, yes, you are abusing the position the Almighty gave you, taking what is not yours.” Vlatn coughed. “I mean... not you, Adolin, but your—”

“Family in general, yeah.” They set down the now empty bowl and waved away the notion. “I understand what you meant, don’t worry about it.” In truth, Adolin was a bit annoyed to hear someone speak so ill of their family, but there wasn’t any point in indulging that anger.

Not when this man only lived because Adolin had asked it.

Jasnah had been all too willing to send Vlatn to join his comrades, to throw away the shriveled husk after she had pulped him for what secrets she could extract, and Shallan didn’t speak a single word against it.

In fact, ever since the attack, she had almost become her mentor’s shadow. It was a difficult experience, Adolin reminded themself. We’re all dealing with it in our own ways.

“You know I’m not going to sell her out,” Vlatn finally said, voice low. “I... appreciate this. The kindness you have shown me. But even if I knew more about her, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I know.” Adolin smiled. “Honestly, I admire that. My father taught me to respect loyalty.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “The Blackthorn?”

“That didn't make it into the reputation?” Sometimes it surprised Adolin, hearing exactly what kind of man everyone else pictured when they thought of Dalinar Kholin.

“No,” Vlatn replied with a huff of an exhale through his nose. “It's mostly the wars and the fields of corpses and the widows he leaves behind.”

The remark stoked the fire inside Adolin, and they resisted the urge to clench their hand tight with the anger. I wonder if Father will ever escape that reputation, if the man he has become can possibly be seen outside of that formidable shadow. Considering his recent disappearance, possible death, Adolin supposed that was unlikely.

A roil of feelings they had no interest in entertaining churned inside of Adolin.

Indignation. They had known what the world at large thought of the Blackthorn, but it was rare to hear it spoken so boldly to their face. But this was the way of the world, wasn’t it? The strong and capable took what they could, proved their worth to the Heralds and the Alighty, and the others were just unhappy that they had been on the wrong end of the sword.

Shame. Despite those rationalizations, the understanding of the necessity of war that had been branded into Adolin through time and experience, Vlatn’s words awoke old memories, long buried. Mother in her room, weeping when she thought Adolin couldn’t hear. Praying aloud, lamenting the life of her husband, the death he dealt.

Grief. Mother was gone. Father may have followed her, passed into the Tranquiline Halls. Ever since the news had come, they had tried to avoid thinking about it, but regardless of their efforts, Adolin's thoughts sometimes approached that yawning abyss inside of them, and as always, they shied back. Father may still be alive, after all.

Curiosity. For six years now, the war had consumed so much of their life. Fighting and leading and dueling and Sadeas and courting... so much of that was lost to them now, with their injuries. They were looking for new purpose, a Calling within their reach. Perhaps the solution lay not with the untread future, but with Mother in the shadowed past.

“I don't suppose you can tell me where we are?” Vlatn spoke hesitantly, sounding keenly aware his last question had killed the flow of their conversation. A few petals of shamespren even fell around his shaggy black hair.

Though, no, perhaps his embarrassment was more to do with how obviously he was fishing for information.

“Off the ship, obviously.” Adolin gave him a charming smile. “Specifically, we’re in a city, preparing for the next leg of our journey.” They paused. “We're still not sure if you'll be joining us for that.”

Jasnah was myopic on the benefits of keeping Vlatn with them compared to the risks of keeping him contained on the road and the costs of another mouth in their caravan.

“Why do you care?”

Adolin blinked. Was it that obvious that they were the only one speaking up for Vlatn? “If I hadn't been injured, and you’d come for my life when I could have defended myself, I probably would have killed you.” It was the simple truth. Adolin was a soldier, and had learned what came with that a long time ago. “But that isn't what happened. You surrendered. Killing you now would be wrong.”

“Not if it's an execution.” Vlatn's voice was hushed, the words carried through the air by the breeze of his pyre.

“I suppose, but...” Adolin tried to think it through, they wanted to give Vlatn a good answer. It would be easy to cite the potential benefits they could still get from having Vlatn in their care, but no matter what Adolin had told Jasnah and Shallan, that hadn't been their motivation.

After all, it didn't seem as though he was likely to give away anything, if he hadn't already. More than likely, there was nothing left to share. He hadn’t been the one operating the spanreed they’d found in the assassin’s belongings, and didn’t know the code for speaking to the woman who’d hired him.

“It's okay,” Vlatn told Adolin, a hint of a smile playing on his face. “I think I understand.” Then, in the space between one second and the next, any joviality disappeared as it fled from the question on his lips. “Is she out there?” Fearspren adhered to the ground around him, their appearance sudden and fierce.

Adolin winced. “Most likely.”

“Hrm.”

“She's not a monster,” Adolin replied, a laugh in their throat that didn't feel entirely genuine.

“If that is what you must believe.” Vlatn sighed, then closed his eyes. “Take care, Adolin.” He didn’t resist as Adolin put the gag back in.

Sure enough, as Adolin wobbled out of the room with the empty bowl in hand, Shallan awaited them.

They had thought they knew Shallan fairly well, all things considered. Seen her in all her witty repartee, her anxious fretting, her academic ferocity. Even if they couldn't always glean what was going on in that incredible mind of hers, they could still see it racing.

The Shallan at the door stood stock still, hand at the side, as though ready to summon her Shardblade at a moment's notice. I doubt I will ever get used to the fact that she has one. It was so small, as well, unlike any other Adolin had ever seen.

When her green eyes flicked up to meet Adolin’s, there was no mischief there. No fear. No intrigue.

Only resolve.

Then, like rainwater settling in a cistern, the tension in her shoulders fell away, and the Shallan that they knew was back. “Did you learn anything?” she asked, tone curious, holding out an arm to help Adolin back to their quarters.

Compared to the servant’s room where Vlatn was being kept, Adolin's living space while they stayed in New Natanatan was luxurious to the extreme. A spinning fan fabrial on the ceiling, plush chairs, tapestries hung on the wall.

“Not really,” Adolin admitted, taking Shallan's assistance to get to a comfortable seat before falling into it. They stretched out their legs, feeling the sorts of aches that used to come from long marches, now brought on from a short walk. From below, they noticed the now all too familiar sight of painspren reaching up to grasp at their legs. “Though... do you know much about Rira?”

“Rira?” Shallan asked, closing the door behind them and staying nearby. Like a bodyguard. “You mean your mother's homeland?”

She was wearing one of her usual havahs, a shade of green that matched her eyes, and Adolin considered if perhaps they could help them pick out a few more for her once they reached the warcamps, give Shallan a little variety in her ensembles. Maybe I could even get one for myself, they considered, but quickly tossed aside the idea. It felt foolish, even with the steps away from masculinity they’d taken thus far.

“Yeah. I just thought, considering all the changes in my life, it might be something to look into.”

Pursing her lips, Shallan fretted over the idea. “Are you sure? They are pagans, you know.”

The word brought back the smell of incense, of whispered prayers to names that hadn't stuck in Adolin’s mind, to a language they’d never been properly taught.

“I’m sure,” they said, keeping their tone gentle. “Besides, you're a Surgebinder. Between you and Jasnah, I’m fairly sure so many cultural taboos are being broken that a little paganism will hardly compare.”

“If you say so,” Shallan replied, and again there was something off about it. They would have expected such a rejoinder to be tinged with amusement, or coupled with a pithy phrase. Instead, it was just... matter-of-fact. Like a squadleader acknowledging a captain’s order. “I can speak to Jasnah and see if she has anything that would help. If not, we can find something at a bookstore before we leave. I could read it to you.”

They weren’t sure how long they’d been in the city. Jasnah was determined to put together a proper escort before leaving, and after the recent attack, she was even more paranoid about potential assassins among those they hired than normal.

Closing their eyes, Adolin let their worries fall away, exhaustion pulling them towards a deep sleep. “Sounds good,” they muttered.

Sleeping in a comfy chair was a luxury they would soon miss, after all.

Chapter Text

-17-

Fraying and Chafing and Rotting

“BRAINSTORMING (ha) SESSION: ways to invest immediately before death no No NO not reliable requires adequate foreknowledge The Future Is Forbidden etc etc not to mention many find cognitive shadow a pale imitation of life foolish idiotic rude rude rude and yet AND YET one must consider patient wishes even when they are wrong and mean and rude perhaps circumvent the issue entirely no shadows no investing perhaps never let them die”

—Scalpel’s Research Log, Pronouns of the day: none gender is a scam do not refer to me, written sixteen days after arriving, local date Betabaches 1173

Approaching the king’s chambers filled Renarin with enough stress to draw anguishspren.

This was not a new development, one born of the many duties thrust upon Renarin’s narrow shoulders, it had been the case before when things were... better?

He clenched his hands and unclenched them in a comforting rhythm as he passed the Cobalt Guard, getting close enough to the door to hear the shouting.

Better, yes. Not the best, but assuredly better.

As had become more common since Kaladin’s arrival, none of the guards were at the door, instead monitoring traffic leading to the room from either side of the corridor. It would cause a scandal if some of their new secrets came to light with the other highprinces, or with their own people.

Renarin stopped before the muffled argument through the wall would become intelligible. He tried to focus on his breathing, on his hands, on anything except the fraying of every sound against his nerves, the chafing of starched fabric on his neck, and the rotting of his previous meal in the corners of his mouth.

Or worse, the worries that pounded away in his brain, on a loop, all the time, never ending, on a loop, all the...

Glys pulsed inside of Renarin’s chest. No words, no sounds, only a warmth that pushed away all of the stimulations buffeting against his mind. “Thank you,” Renarin muttered, before moving to the door.

“—same abilities as the Assassin in White!” Elhokar’s voice blazed with enough heat to scorch the ear of any who heard. “How can we know this woman’s letter isn’t a forgery?! This could be a trap! An assassination attempt!!”

Mashala scoffed. “What point would there be in that? With her abilities, if Kaladin wanted us dead, we would have been Soulcast into statues days ago. Assassins don't announce themselves to your face, deliver important information, then proceed to flail around socially for—” She stopped, turning to look at Renarin as he entered the room. His aunt had been doing her best to stay composed in public, but Renarin could see the disappointment in her eyes as she saw it was him, and not his Father, standing there. I shouldn't be hurt. Anyone would gladly trade my place for his. “Renarin, shut the door and help me talk sense into my son.”

“Sense?!” Elhokar looked to Renarin as well, and it had been some time since he had seen the king looking this incensed. An impressive throng of angerspren pooled beneath his feet, a bloody visual to represent his bloody mood. “Cousin, tell me you don’t trust this woman!”

Do I? Renarin wondered. He came to an answer quickly. Yes, I suppose I do. But why? Elhokar is right, her letter could be forged, and the similarities between her abilities and the assassin’s is uncanny. And yet, she hardly seems capable of such subterfuge. Kaladin seems as blunt as a warhammer, and she keeps looking to the horizon, as though eager to leave us all behind. That wasn’t the real reason he trusted her, though. She’s like me. Another Surgebinder. It would be nice, to not be so alone.

While Renarin pondered the topic, his relatives continued their discussion. Elhokar seemed frustrated by Renarin’s quiet, but he turned his attention back to his mother to redouble the argument anyway. They were both used to Renarin’s strange behavior. “Mother, even if this truly is from Jasnah, how can you be so sure she isn’t being tricked?”

Sylphrena appears to be kind, but Glys felt nervous about the idea of revealing himself to her. Why? Are they from rival spren nations?

“...Elhokar. Do you truly think that could be the case?”

The king let out a frustrated huff, and turned away from his mother, sending his royal cape flaring out behind him. “Jasnah isn’t perfect. She’s just as human as I am, Mother.”

If Jasnah and her ward are Surgebinders as well, then do they have spren of their own? Will Glys be similarly uneasy around them? Renarin pulled out his cube, looking down at it, and began gently rubbing a side with a roughly textured surface. It helped calm him, even as he wondered, Is Glys just as much an outsider among his kind as I am among mine?

“Believe me, I’m well aware. And yet, I’ve learned to trust her. Can’t you do the same? At least until we’re given reason to do otherwise?”

Elhokar sighed. “I suppose. But until I say otherwise, I want this woman to be kept under watch.” Finally taking a seat in the lush chair behind his desk, Elhokar drummed his fingers on the wood in a way that brought back that terrible itch to Renarin’s skin. The rhythm was... wrong. “Where is she now?”

“Training,” Renarin said. “With our ardents.” She’d asked after martial instruction soon after arriving, and while unorthodox, Renarin had seen no reason to refuse her.

“With the sword?” Elhokar asked, befuddled.

Renarin nodded. “I believe so. Though, she also showed some interest in the spear.” His hands continued to fidget with his cube, the movements slightly more frantic now that there was attention on him.

“Kelek’s breath...” Elhokar leaned forward onto his desk, his head resting in his hands. “A darkeyed woman, whose eyes have changed color because of ancient powers we do not understand, is undergoing sword training?” Mashala did not look quite as flummoxed, but the angle of her lips bespoke a similar fear of this precedent.

“Yes.” Renarin cleared his throat. “Should I... fetch her?”

Mashala looked out the window, at the changing hue of the sky as the sun began to set. “We’ll find her together. I have a feeling she will need some help, if she’s to attend the feast tonight.”

Some help would be required, Renarin silently agreed. Though it may take a Herald.

Renarin walked beside the palanquin, surrounded by retainers and guards and scribes.

They moved through the Kholin warcamp, and everywhere they went, there were Parshman. Renarin did his best not to stare at them, but it was difficult, considering some were carrying his aunt. Looking over their marbled skin, Renarin thought back to the questions he’d once asked his mother, once he was capable of forming them. It felt like a lifetime ago.

And now, Jasnah’s theories... Could they truly be Voidbringers? Glys gave something like an answer, a warmth near scalding rising from Renarin’s chest. No? But is Jasnah correct, that we... made them this way?

There was no answer forthcoming.

“I’ve heard Danlan has been seeking you out,” Mashala asked him from her seat.

There wasn't much he wanted to say about that, so Renarin stayed silent.

Mashala let out a lingering sigh, and Renarin felt sure that were they traveling more closely, she would have rested her freehand on his arm, a light touch to get his attention. “Do you find her company agreeable?”

What a strange question. Renarin has been asked so many like it, and in the end, they were all merely breeze, a cover for what was really being asked. Are you attracted to this one?

“No more or less than the others.” Not many women had sought out the younger brother, the cripple, the coward, but Renarin had the feeling Danlan’s recent assault was just the first of many. “I’d prefer to see less of her.”

“...” He knew that Mashala was looking at him, concern coloring her expression, but Renarin kept his bespectacled eyes forward. “You can tell her that, you know. Don’t let the girl think she has a chance if she doesn’t.”

An itching heat that had nothing to do with Glys flushed up Renarin’s back, and he suddenly desperately wished he could be in the palanquin too, that he could occupy his hands with his cube, that he could be doing any of the things that would distract him from the loose fold in one of his socks and the smell of cooking stew in the wind and the fact he was an utter failure to his family.

“If I did,” Renarin finally said, catching sight of the practice grounds ahead of them, “two more would just take her place.”

Praise the Heralds, his aunt took that answer and said nothing else. When they reached their destination, she and much of their retinue stayed outside, leaving Renarin and a few guards to walk among the sand and locate their Windrunner.

“Again!”

She was not difficult to find.

Kaladin, still of no last name, was sparring in the same sort of loose clothes as the others present, though from what Renarin understood of many of his fellow lighteyed men, the way it was currently fitting her would mean distracted sparrers.

The woman’s long black hair was bound in a tail, rather than a more appropriate braid, and her clothes were damp with sweat, sticking them tightly to her body. She was also, as best as Renarin could see, bruised in half a dozen places, and had split her lip. In her hands, she held a wooden staff, the traditional way to begin spear instruction.

Or at least, so Renarin was told. His memories of attempting this sort of training were far off, hazy, and clouded with shame.

The ardent Kaladin was training with was also a woman, one with a weathered quality to her austere features that bespoke all she had endured. “No.” As she spoke, she made pointed eye contact with the approaching prince.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? There’s—”

Renarin cleared his throat.

In a feverish spin, Kaladin turned to face Renarin, hands gripping her staff as though she was ready to use it, but then she blinked, her light blue eyes surprised, and stood up straight. “Oh. It’s you.”

“There’s going to be a feast tonight.” Renarin looked back, to where the palanquin was visible outside the building. “My aunt has offered to assist you in preparing for it.” Whether or not that was truly feasible within the time they had, Renarin wasn’t sure. But it’s what Mashala had asked for, and so it’s what was going to happen.

“And if I’m not exactly eager to go to this ‘feast’?” Her use of the word was well coated in scorn.

It made Renarin smile, a small upturning of the corners of his mouth that was easily missed. “Then you and I would be of similar minds. Nonetheless, we’ve been asked to attend.”

For a moment, Renarin could have sworn that Kaladin had smiled in turn, but perhaps that had simply been a trick of the light. “Fine.” She walked off towards one of the rooms at the side of the sparring grounds, and when she emerged minutes later, she was wearing a cobalt dress with a pinned sleeve. The hue matched her eyes.

Her wounds from training, Renarin realized as they walked back towards the palanquin together, had disappeared. Incredible.

“Ah, Kaladin, there you are.” Mashala greeted her warmly as she climbed into the palanquin, and together they all headed off towards the Kholin palace in their own warcamp. “We haven’t had much opportunity to speak since your sudden arrival. How are you finding the Shattered Plains?”

The taller woman let out a frustrated huff. “No offense, Brightness, but I’d rather not be in a warzone.” She paused, before adding, “Not unless I’m treating patients.”

A surgeon. I wonder how much she knows of my ailments. Has news of them reached as far as Kharbranth? Did Adolin tell her? According to her, they’re relatively close. This hasn't surprised Renarin in the slightest. His brother had always been quick to befriend others, even those as recalcitrant as Kaladin.

Thinking of Adolin made Renarin’s chest clench in pain, a pang of loss, of distance, and not for the first time, he wished Adolin would arrive as soon as he could.

Together, the two women began to plot as to how to present Kaladin to the court. Or, to be more accurate, Mashala plotted and Kaladin endured.

For all that he kept an ear open to the discussion, Renarin’s attention was elsewhere.

A spren of white and blue, looking indistinguishable from a windspren, was flying in the breeze, but staying close to Renarin in the shape of a young woman, wearing a surgeon’s smock.

Their gazes met, and Renarin had the distinct impression that Sylphrena was worried about him.

The King’s Feasts were never a pleasant experience for Renarin.

Which, to be entirely fair, no social event ever was, really. But even still, the feasts were a personal Desolation.

A relentless onslaught of sights and smells and sounds and people people people. At least in the Kholin warcamp, Renarin was the son of the highprince. The defective son, surely, the forgotten child, and a million other whispered complaints, but he was known, and the stares weren’t so piercing.

But none were so ravenous a horde as the assembled warcamp’s lighteyes, eager for contest, hungry for sport. At least before, Adolin had been there to help. A shield, to hide behind, and a sword, to fend off those who went too far.

Standing on the first island, where genders could intermix and no actual feasting was to be done, there was no such protection to be found.

This feast, the waters between the isles were filled with floating baskets full of blooming flora, gemstones nestled amongst their splendor. Renarin stayed by the shore, observing as they passed by, waiting for this to be over.

“Renarin, there you are!” Danlan approached, a sway in her step that he assumed was meant to draw his eye. She was as aesthetically pleasant as ever, with a teal dress that matched well with her black and auburn hair, which she wore in a braid that encircled the crown of her head. She smiled at him, and Renarin couldn’t tell how false it was. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I just arrived.” He’d put it off as long as he reasonably could.

If Danlan took any notice of his beleaguered tone, she didn’t show it. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?” Renarin blinked, stunned, and began racking his brain to recall an actual proposal from the woman. I can’t have missed that, can I? Danlan giggled. “Oh, Renarin, I meant about scribing! With your camp in such disarray, and so many lost in their grief, I thought that offering to step up as your personal scribe would be the least I could do to help.”

Renarin considered the offer while Danlan moved on, talking about some local gossip. Something about Jakamav and a recent victory on the Plains. Is she more of a social climber than I thought?

There was another possibility, of course. Jasnah had warned of spies, and they were particularly vulnerable to them at the moment. Could Danlan have more dangerous motives in mind?

“...and you’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

Renarin fought to keep a frown from his face. “You were telling me about the issues others are finding with the Codes of War.” Why do people always assume I’m not listening to them? To be sure, there had been times where his attention would wander so far afield that he’d lose track of the discussion, but Renarin had worked to do better than that.

Judging by the way Danlan’s eyes widened, she hadn’t expected that, and from her pout, she took that as a rebuke. “My apologies, highprince, but—”

“I’m not the highprince,” Renarin cut in.

Danlan sighed, and something shifted in her expression that Renarin found difficult to gauge, as though her tactics in a battle had suddenly changed. “This isn’t working, is it?”

The urge to pull out his cube from a pocket, to fidget with it, to have a reason to avoid looking at Danlan, was terribly tempting. “No. I’m sorry.” He could have left it there, but some shame bleeding through his good sense pushed Renarin to keep going. “It isn’t you. I’m not interested in finding a wife.”

“You’d prefer a husband?” Danlan asked, and to Renarin’s shock, there wasn’t a hint of mockery to the query.

“Perhaps,” Renarin admitted, voice hushed.

Danlan simply nodded her head, and didn’t say a word as Renarin finally succumbed to his needs, pulling the tool from a pocket and using it to soothe the stresses that ailed him. “I can understand that. I’ll take a husband, if I can find one, but I may prefer a literate partner.” She crossed her arms before her, a defensive gesture. “No offense, brightlord, but reading to others can get tiring.”

“I’d imagine so.” Pressing a small button on the side of the cube at a pace that felt right, Renarin considered just what he was feeling. The stresses of the feast were still there, of course, but... he also felt more comfortable, if only by a mark or two. She could be lying to me, trying to save face after my social suicide. But even if that’s all this is, I still appreciate it.

It looked as though Danlan was about to say her goodbyes, when someone else approached the two of them.

For a moment, Renarin tensed, not recognizing the newcomer: a woman in a sky blue havah, her long black hair elegantly braided in a simple style. “I don’t care if I starve, I can’t go back over there,” she breathed, her voice gruff, and Renarin realized who this was, under the make-up and the finery. “I thought the women at the hospital could be cutthroat, but obviously I’ve been mistaking axehounds for whitespines.”

“Kaladin,” he muttered, and that feeling of safety only increased, now that someone else was here who hated the proceedings as much as he did.

“Hmm?”

Looking to Danlan, it was clear she was curious about this tall woman who’d come up to Renarin, speaking to him so casually. Feeling a fool, Renarin gestured with one hand towards the Radiant. “This is Brightness Kaladin. She’s a cousin from Kholinar, here to assist in the war.”

Danlan fluttered her eyelashes at the newcomer, and something about her smile grew just a breeze sharper. “Oh? Are you going to be fighting on the front lines, then?”

“Why would you think that?” Renarin asked.

“No,” Kaladin answered at the same time. “I’m not here to kill anyone.”

The scribe gasped, an expression which did an excellent job making her appear vapid. Why does she want people to think she’s stupid? “So you are the one who’s been training with the ardents! The woman Shardbearer!”

Renarin and Kaladin shared a look. This was information that was supposed to be kept quiet, but evidently, that had failed. Considering the gossip of the Alethi court, there was a reasonably good chance everyone at the feast knew, or would soon. Perhaps in a week, rumors would reach Azir.

“It’s a long story,” Kaladin said.

This did nothing to deter Danlan. “Can I hear it?”

Even from only a week of knowing her, Renarin knew what Kaladin would say before she even opened her mouth.

“No.”

After an evening spent among skyeels, it felt good to retreat to safer environs.

“Please tell me I never have to go to another one of those,” Kaladin asked, leaning against the wall outside her quarters.

Renarin had escorted her from the feast, and it was nearing time for both to retire for bed. Still, something pushed Renarin to keep going, to build the confidence to say what had to be said, even if Glys still seemed wary of the idea. “There’s one next week,” he told Kaladin, trying to keep the mood light.

The woman shook her head. “Do you have any idea how many spheres are spent on that food? On the gaudy decorations?”

“Yes, actually. It changes depending on the feast, but on average it comes out to half a hundred emerald broams.” He’d gotten bored at one of them, and so had decided to occupy his time figuring it out. “Kaladin, before you go, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She raised her eyebrows, but otherwise said nothing, simply standing there and waiting.

Glys’s heat burned in his chest, but Renarin kept going. “You’re not the only Surgebinder in the warcamps. Or at least, I don’t think you will be for long.”

For some reason, Kaladin didn’t show any sense of surprise at the insinuation. She simply inclined her head, and lowered her voice. “A spren has been following you around?”

“It’s more like he’s... inside of me? At least, he is most of the time. His name is Glys.”

“I knew it!” Sylphrena announced, appearing suddenly as a gust of wind circling around Kaladin. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it~!”

Kaladin seemed unamused by her antics. “Yes, Syl, you did.” Focusing her attention back on Renarin, the surgeon asked him, “Can you breathe in Stormlight? If so, what can you do with it?” With the questions, Sylphrena stopped her spinning and settled near Kaladin’s shoulder, coalescing her shape into that of a young woman, this time in a havah like the ones worn to the feast.

“I haven’t tried,” Renarin admitted. I was scared to try. “But I have these... visions? They come to me, without any warning. Not like Father’s, not always during highstorms. Glys says they could be useful, but they worry me.”

Sylphrena winced. “That sounds strange. I can’t remember any Radiants with abilities like that.”

Of course. Even as a Surgebinder, there’s no one like me. It had been foolish for him to expect otherwise.

“Well, maybe Renarin’s something new, then,” Kaladin admonished Sylphrena, before giving Renarin a small smile. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“There’s more,” Renarin said, and now the words were coming in a rush, a torrent, a stormwall. “I keep seeing Father, where he is now, and no matter what anyone says, he’s alive. The Parshendi have him captive.”

A silence fell in the wake of Renarin’s words, and he waited, trying to read Kaladin’s grim face for any sign of what she thought. “You want me to rescue him, don’t you?” she asked.

“I want us to rescue him. Together.”

Chapter Text

-18-

It Came from the Sea

“Every rusting night after a successful job, the nightmare hits me. Wake up crying for my damn auntie. When does it end? When will I know peace?”

—Ironsights’ personal log, entry written twenty-two days after arrival on Roshar, page ripped out and eaten in a fit of pique

Even with a mountain in the way, they could all tell when the highstorm hit.

There was a shift in the pressure, a clatter of rain, and an unmistakable tremor through the rock beneath them.

“Nalan’s nails, are we sure this is safe?” Lirin asked. He was huddled by Hesina’s side, Oroden safe in her arms. Karusar, her fingers still at work tuning her instrument, snorted a laugh at the question, which earned a glare from Hesina’s husband. “What?”

She ignored the push, her face contemplative as she experimentally plucked at strings, frowned, then fiddled with the metal pins to adjust the sound. Hesina blinked, noticing for the first time one of the pegs was a different color than the others, seemingly made out of a different kind of metal.

“It’s nothing to do with your question,” Naln assured Lirin from where he sat, his back to the wagon’s wall. “It’s simply an... inside joke, I suppose. As for our safety...” The scholar looked up at the roof above them.

Or, rather, the floor of their now overturned wagon. The shorter among them had some room between their heads and the ceiling, but Hesina’s hair scraped the wood, and Karusar had to lean over just to fit.

Crouched in the wild, Naln’s ruffled sleeves and cravat made him look just a little ridiculous. “...this is what it was made for. It’s a stormcart.”

“Th-they’re used in the w-w-westlands,” Nomon spoke up. Their stutter had nothing to do with the cold, but as Hesina had learned since he had ‘risen’ the day before, was simply an affect of his that the other members of their system lacked. “Made for w-weaker storms, b-b-b-but, we have protection from the Unclaimed Hills.” He was huddled by his lonesome, as far from the horses as they could get. (It wasn’t a fear, Nomon had claimed, the animals simply made them nervous.)

Karusar, meanwhile, was leaning up against the slumbering beasts. She’d fed them a sedative when the decision had been made to stop for the storm, and once the horses were unconscious, everyone worked together to overturn their sturdy cart, climb in through a side gate, and prepare for the storm.

It had been a week since the confrontation with their pursuers.

A week since Karusar had killed them with arrow and fire. A week since she had lifted Lirin and shaken him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. A week since she’d let slip that their eldest son was actually their daughter.

In the aftermath, Salas had done as Karusar requested and explained to Lirin and Hesina what ‘plurality’ was, what the “moons” were, and what the “sisters” were. Both were single bodies shared between multiple separate identities, but their circumstances were dramatically different. We rise and set. They co-exist, Salas had summarized.

Trying to digest the concept, on top of learning this secret of Kaladin’s, was taking time.

Perhaps it was lucky, then, that they had as much as they could want and more on this trek through the wilderness, far from any stormshelter. And all the while, Karusar had been avoiding them.

Which may have been for the best. After everything that happened, I’m still not entirely sure if I want to punch her or hug her.

The sound of the downpour crashing on the cart’s bottom was loud, but not enough so to drown out their conversation. Lirin put a hand on the wood, narrowing his eyes as though he could inspect the grain and find some fatal flaw. “I suppose it’s keeping the water out well enough, but what of the lightning?”

Naln cleared his throat, and his dark eyes gleamed in the light of the dim spheres between them all, eager to clarify. “As the cart is made of stumpweight wood, and there are much taller targets nearby, including a mountain, the odds of a strike as infinitesimal.”

“Considering what we’re abutting,” Hesina brought up, her tone one of idle speculation, “and the direction of the storm, what about debris? In the fury of a highstorm, even rock formations can fracture.”

The question earned a befuddled blink from Naln. “Oh, well... I suppose—”

“We’d die.” Karusar cut in.

Silence fell in the wake of her statement.

Focus still on her lunui, Karusar kept talking, a growl in her low voice that felt a twin to the thunder in the storm outside. “It’s unlikely. But it could happen, and if it did, we’d all be fucked.” She shook her head, jaw setting in a grimace. “Nothing we can do about it. Highstorms are deadly, period. Pretending otherwise is a comforting fantasy.”

Then, finally, it seemed her tuning was complete, and she began to play a song. Her gloved safehand tensed on the neck of the instrument, pushing down several strings, while the calloused fingers on her freehand began to strum.

It began as a comforting rhythm, strangely familiar in melody, before she began adding complexities. In-between the strumming, she attacked in fits and bursts, striking with precise notes, building them into a second melody, not a harmony but an entirely separate beat, on top of the first.

And then, she started to sing, in a language that Hesina had never heard before. The sounds weren’t nearly as consonant-filled as Thaylen, but there were plenty of ‘n’ and ‘m’ and ‘r’ sounds, softened by the ‘oo’s and ‘ee’s throughout.

“Oh...” Nomon curled his arms around his legs and pulling themself into a ball, watching the performance. “It’s th-that one...” Hesina expected to see fearspren appear around them, but instead, a single ring of blue smoke burst around their head, an awespren.

The attention did nothing to affect Karusar’s playing, as she finished the opening vocals and redoubled the efforts of her fingers, attacking her instrument into producing a sound not unlike the crashing noise of the thunder outside, the waves of rain lapping at their protective retreat. Her expression was intent, focused on the task, and her light yellow eyes had no object other than the lunui.

There was certainly something striking to her, Hesina couldn’t deny that. Even hunched over, stray bright red bangs dangling in front of her face, clad in armor and laboring on her instrument, Karusar was a contradiction. Precise in her every movement, yet clumsy with her speech. An ever-thinking complexity lurking behind her eyes, yet a tongue so profane it spewed forth curses Hesina had never even considered. Prickly and sour, and yet here she was, playing them a song while the storm raged around them.

“‘That one’?” Lirin asked.

Naln, who was busy crawling across the ground towards Nomon, fielded the question. “It’s something Karusar picked up while abroad.” Reaching his friend, Naln pulled Nomon into a side-embrace, his left arm around the other man’s shoulders. “It’s a Marabethian story ballad about a mysterious creature invading the Purelake from a flood of the Reshi Sea, terrorizing all it came across. Loosely translated, the song is called ‘The Beast, It Came from the Sea’.”

As Karusar began to sing in what Hesina assumed was some sort of Purelaker tongue, her eyes drifted to the way she was playing, so at odds from how Danahui had performed before them, and felt the strangest tug of unexpected familiarity at the sight. “I’ve heard her play this before,” she thought aloud, a smile curling her lips. “She was practicing it at the campfire, even though it was Danahui who was talking to us.” She couldn’t help but sound incredulous.

“Is that possible?” Lirin seemed skeptical of the idea.

“W-w-with her? Yes.” Nomon tore his eyes away from Karusar’s performance and looked over to Lirin, leaning into Naln’s embrace. “It’s like Salas t-t-told you. The Sisters share their b-b-b-body. Two of them can front at the same time, performing different t-t-tasks, and even when only one is in c-control, the others can be listening and w-watching. But, with us, it’s... different.”

Hesina adjusted Oroden in her lap, he was starting to get fussy from the barrage of sounds, and would need some attention to calm down. “I remember this. You and Mishim and Salas don’t share memories, right? You rise and set, like the moons you’re named after.” If anything, that idea had been easier for her to pick up on than Karusar’s experiences.

“They usually have some warning for when it happens,” Naln added, the slight smile crossing his scruffy features a sign that he appreciated Hesina’s input. “Often, they use that time to leave notes for the next in line, that way there isn’t too much surprise about what they’re stepping into.” Resting his chin on Nomon’s shoulder, Naln seemed much more comfortable there than he’d been before crossing the wagon.

By this point, Karusar had finished the ballad about a sea beast, and switched to another melody Hesina half-recognized. This time, the lyrics were in Alethi, telling a tale about struggling with love with a life on the road. A caravaneer song, perhaps?

Between the topic in music, and the sight before her, Hesina quirked her mouth into a curious smile as she passed her son over to Lirin, who Oroden had been reaching for with grabby hands. “How long have you known each other?”

“N-Naln and I?” Nomon asked, and when Hesina nodded, their brown cheeks darkened with a hint of a blush. “It’s a silly story...”

Lirin sighed, and looked around their improvised stormshelter. “I think we could use a silly story.”

“Well, it has to do with the other moons’ profession, you see,” Naln began. As he started to talk, Nomon shifted away from him, leaning their head down so that his brown curls obscured his face. “Did either of them tell you what it is they do for a living?” The scholar sounded hesitant to reveal this himself, and that only grew worse when Hesina and Lirin confirmed their ignorance.

“It’s f-f-fine,” Nomon said, voice small. “They can know.”

Naln spared his friend a small smile, then began the tale in earnest. “This was shortly after I’d moved to Kholinar, and a few years after I’d started my journey towards my ideal self. I wasn’t completely comfortable with my body, but people on the street weren’t scandalized by the lack of a safehand glove, so that was a good start.

“Living as a man for the first time, having escaped everything that had been holding me back, at first I simply focused on stabilizing my new living situation. Finding a job, settling into my new abode, ensuring all of my needs were met. But... well, once that was done, I found my unattended wants had built up, and I was too terrified to attempt romance. So, I asked around, and found an accepting brothel.” He sounded embarrassed, but also as though he was annoyed at himself for feeling that way.

“There's nothing wrong with that,” Hesina said, voice on the precipice of a chastisement. Her claim seemed to surprise Lirin, judging by the way his dark eyes widened. I’m going to have to talk to him about that later.

Her remark was echoed by Nomon. “I k-k-keep telling him that, but...”

The conversation around Naln’s shame only seemed to make it worse, his cheeks darkening with a blush before he covered his face with both hands. “I hired Salas for the night, but in the morning, Nomon was there. I helped them through a panic attack, we became friends rather quickly, they introduced me to everyone else, and the rest is history. Story over. Can we please talk about anything else?”

Lirin, it seemed, was ready to ask the question that had been burning in him since Kholinar. “Who are you people?”

Finishing her second song, Karusar set aside her lunui and fielded the query. “We’re part of a support network.”

“Helping each other out,” Nomon continued, pride seeping into their tone. “The queer, the b-b-broken, the dispossessed. Apart, we’re weak, we’re p-poor, we’re nothing. Together, we’re...” They looked to Naln for help.

“Concentrated primary in the Vorin states, but with members all over the world, we stand together against prejudice, against fear, and against hierarchy. Woe to those who would hurt those we protect.” Unlike the others, Naln’s recitation had a precise diction, as though he’d practiced it regularly.

Reaching a hand behind her to run it through the mane of an unconscious horse, Karusar finished what she had begun. “We’re Fools, the lot of us.” Then she turned her head, met Lirin’s gaze, and her eyes narrowed into a glare. “That answer the storming question?”

“It did,” Lirin replied, “but it’s only raised another. How exactly does a group like yours get horses? Or this specialized wagon? Even pooling your resources together, I can’t see how that’s feasible.” Skepticism rang with every word.

Karusar snorted, beginning the work of destringing her instrument, putting it back in its case. “Friends of friends, allies, benefactors, whatever the fuck you want to call them. Can’t say I trust them, but their spheres spend, and at the end of the day, that’s about all we can ask for.”

An uneasy silence descended in the wake of the pronouncement, as Hesina had noticed happened often after Karusar spoke. The woman was as adept at killing people as she was at conversations.

Luckily, Hesina was capable of resurrecting at least one of the two, with the proper effort. “Naln, would you mind answering a few more questions for us?”

The scholar blinked, but then recognition flashed across his face. “Ah! Your daughter.” He considered, before speaking slowly, telling her, “You must understand, simply because we’re both deviating from the genders prescribed to us at birth, that doesn’t mean that—”

“Your experiences are going to be different, obviously,” Hesina cut in, voice full to bursting with mirth. “But still, there are going to be similarities too.” She looked to her husband, and saw he understood.

“He... she has been distant, for a while now. Writing less, hiding more from us, and now we know why.” Lirin sighed, his age showing on his face, and Hesina thought if she could look into a mirror, she’d see the same was true for her. “We want to do right by her. We want her to trust us. How do we do that?”

“The fact you’re asking those questions,” Naln began, “means you’re already halfway there.”

With no one around to see it, Karusar was smiling.

“Sheltering through a highstorm brings people together,” Karusar's father had once said. “In the face of the Stormfather’s wrath, we remember our only true defense against the harsh wilds: each other.”

Sitting outside the cart, longsword on her lap, enduring the riddens even as the rain soaked into her hair, Karusar couldn't help but remember Tinosh’s words. Dad was a naive fool, but he wasn't wrong. Something about the evening had broken barriers, gotten them all to talk. It had been nice, even if Karusar didn't contribute much herself.

Now, they were all asleep, and Karusar was on watch, a clutch of freshly infused spheres to keep her company and light the scenery before her.

For all their danger, the wilds of eastern Alethkar were beautiful.

Under the dim light of Salas, a far swath of the night sky stained by Taln’s Scar, the rolling hills were quaint. Gnarled trees, which Karusar couldn’t put a name to, littered the area, with dense foliage that was all too willing to retract at the first hint of a breeze. In the wake of the storm, those leaves were just beginning to emerge once more, the wild grass was peeking out from its holes, and the rockbuds were blooming, eager to soak up the streams of water running across the rocky ground.

For all my complaining, Karusar admitted, I’m glad for this trip. The thought elicited mournful waves of sound from Ana, but Karusar was happy to let the brightlady sulk. You had plenty of time to scheme and schmooze and whatever. Mora’ll still be there when we’re done. Ana protested, fear radiating from every beat. Yes, she storming will. Now shut up and let me enjoy some peace and quiet.

Her sister relented, and Karusar settled into an easy tranquility. Alert, ready for danger at a moment’s notice, but in the meantime, all too happy to relish the scene.

Then the hatch on the side wall of the wagon opened, and a tousle-haired beauty emerged to sit next to Karusar, just as the rain began to abate.

Hesina didn’t say anything, so Karusar didn’t either.

They just sat together, looking at the beauty that Mother Cultivation had wrought. (Or so claimed the stories back west.)

“Couldn’t sleep?” Karusar finally asked, voice just loud enough to carry to Hesina’s ear.

She took her time in answering, and when she did, it came with a maddeningly playful tone. “Oh, I could sleep, I just chose not to.” Leaning closer, she elbowed Karusar gently in the side. “I thought it was time we had a talk.”

Ignoring the way those words sent her guts tumbling end over end, Karusar shrugged. “Sure. Talk.”

“I’m sorry.” The words hung in the air, given the space to breathe, before Hesina followed them. “When you took over from Danahui, I was shocked, I was confused, and I said some things I shouldn't have. I distanced myself from you, and I'm afraid you may have gotten the wrong impression because of that.”

It was a good apology. Karusar sat in silence, listening to the excited sound of pick on strings from Nesh as she advised what to do next. Storming little sister, as if I’m useless at this without her help. The worst part was, her advice wasn't bad.

“Danahui didn't make things easy on you, dodging the subject until it was too late.” She let out a weary sigh. “Neither did I. First day, and what do I do with it? Scare the Damnation out of you, yell at your husband, shake him hard enough to hear his brain rattle around. I'm sorry too. Shouldn't have done that.” Part of her still felt justified in it, but good sense compelled her to shame. The man was being an ass at the time, but being borderline violent about it didn't help her case.

Hesina let out a husky laugh, and storms above, Karusar could feel it in her chest. “Karusar, I’ve been with Lirin for twenty years. Do you think I haven't wanted to shake him like that?”

She snorted. “Yeah, suppose you would.”

“Still, I appreciate the apology, and I’d prefer if you avoided fighting with him too much in the future. You saved our lives, and you were right to remind him of the duty we have to our children. But pushing us around and forcing us to do things your way isn't exactly going to work, long-term.” Her voice was gentle, yet the recrimination was clear.

It hit, too hard. Karusar winced. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

“Glad to know those ears are working.” Then, in a move that would haunt Karusar's dreams for days to come, Hesina reached up an arm and gently ran her freehand’s fingers over the cartilage of Karusar’s ear.

Such a simple caress awoke a fire in Karusar, the heat of it inflaming her cheeks, and any sense that she knew what to say or do next evaporated. Snowflakes of passionspren fell around her.

In her mind, the eager strings of Danahui's violoiv played a merry tune, almost begging to take back control, to start fronting, right then and there.

Jump in a river of piss, sis. This is my night.

“You were quite the spectacle in that fight,” Hesina commented, something in those brown eyes of hers teasing that she knew exactly what effect she was having on the mercenary.

If only her words hadn't settled like a lead weight in Karusar's stomach. “I could have done better.” It came out as a growl of bitter frustration. “My archery skills are rusty.” She’d started augmenting her pre-dawn training to compensate, but worried that she didn't have the equipment and space for proper marksmanship practice.

“Why do you do that?” Hesina sounded incredulous, as though she wasn't sure if she should be amused or annoyed. “I’ve seen what you put yourself through. With your body, with your music.” She took hold of Karusar's leather gloved safehand with her bare freehand. “Who are you trying to impress?”

Karusar wanted to wrench her hand away. She wanted to stand up and walk off into the forest, just to be alone. She wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.

Fuck that. I'm not a child anymore. “Hesina, I appreciate what you're trying to say.” She gave the older woman’s freehand a squeeze. “But you're talking out of your ass. I don't do this for anyone else. I do it for me.”

“Why?”

“Because...”

...I have to be the best.

...I have to be perfect.

...I can never afford to be weak again.

“...it's who I am. Asking me to stop striving to do better is like trying to get Danahui to stop showing off. There are better things you could do with your time.” With the words out, Karusar's mouth felt dry, her lips lonely.

Hesina let out another sound of amusement that felt pitch perfect for wrapping Karusar around her finger, before following it with a yawn. “For now, the best thing I can do with my time is sleep.” She kissed Karusar on the cheek, then rose and returned to the wagon.

“I’m an idiot.” Karusar groaned, rubbing her hands against her face, as though she could somehow wipe away any trace of her embarrassment like she would some sticky sap. “I have no right to say shit about Danahui ever again. Shalash’s storming shitting taint I’m an idiot.”

“An idiot is,” agreed a voice from above her, and suddenly Karusar realized her sisters had gone silent.

Removing the obstructing hands from her eyes, she noticed her shadow was pointed towards the spheres illuminating her. Something else had changed with the world around her, a softening of the illumination from the night sky above, a faint sense of unreality to the landscape.

Raising her head, Karusar found what she expected.

Or rather, who she expected.

Gloss was a spren that resembled a human, only made from some sort of shimmering black substance, color only visible in refractions across her surface. She appeared to be wearing a tailored suit, a masculine form of dress, and like her natural features, it was all lines and sharp edges. As always, she was smirking, the expression somehow both friendly and combative. In her hand, she held a real longsword, one with a thin blade and a crossguard that covered much of the hand that held it.

Well, at least a good sparring session will get my libido to stop mucking things up. Some fighters she knew had the opposite effect from combat, but Karusar had always found that fighting focused her, kept the distractions of her baser needs off her mind.

Of course, with Gloss, Karusar wasn't entirely sure where ‘sparring’ began and ‘deadly struggle’ ended.

Standing to her full height, where she towered a full head taller than her opponent, Karusar unsheathed her own blade, and fell into her usual ready stance.

Whoever, or maybe whatever, had trained Gloss in the sword had given her a form unlike anything Karusar had even seen. It wasn't one of those fancy ten Vorin styles, nor was it a more practical Makabaki pose. It was too still in waiting, too sinuous in motion.

“You going to strike? Because if not, that's fine, I can stand here all d—”

And then Gloss was moving and there was no time for talking.

Years and years of practice with the blade, with practical combat, meant that even as fast as the spren was (and storms was she fast), Karusar could trust her body to know what to do, blocking the blows where she could, dodging those she couldn't.

While her body handled that, her mind turned to tactics.

The first night Gloss had appeared, Karusar had been confused. Spren, even the smart kind that had been bothering her sisters more recently, couldn't be touched. Like any spren, they were insubstantial.

Gloss and her sword were very physical, and could absolutely harm Karusar if she wasn't careful. She had scars to prove it.

With every fight, Gloss was getting smarter. The first night, Karusar had overpowered the spren, but on every subsequent contest of arms, the spren had avoided even attempting such a thing, evading any taunts Karusar threw at her. Next she had won through unexpected introduction of unarmed strikes, but when Karusar tried the same in this bout, Gloss was prepared.

The spren was faster than her, and never seemed to tire the way Karusar would. If she was going to win again, Karusar would have to think, and fast. Time was not on her side.

Luckily, she still had some tricks up her sleeve. Just as Gloss was expecting a simple parry, Karusar put more force behind it, turning it into a shove, an invitation to match strength against strength.

Of course, the clever spren avoided the contest, taking Karusar's momentum and turning to the side, readying for another strike.

Karusar feinted a leg sweep, and of course, Gloss aborted her strike, giving up her stable footing to hop over the attack she thought was coming.

“I win,” Karusar muttered, breathing heavily.

Gloss’s sharp features blanched in confusion. “How?”

To make the point clear, Karusar lightly nudged the knife she’d palmed into her off-hand into Gloss’s side where she’d brought it to bare, ready to plunge in if necessary.

“Ha!” Gloss laughed, her sword falling from her hands as she clutched at her stomach, the way a human would, and even made a snorting sound in the middle of the storm of giggles. “Fascinating! A clever idea is.”

“It's common, nothing to praise.” While the spren retrieved her own weapon, Karusar sheathed both of hers. The fight was done, for now. Which meant talking. Yay.

“You misrepresent the utility,” Gloss complained, settling her glassy hands on her hips, sounding disappointed with Karusar. “You dull yourself.”

Again? Seriously? Karusar bristled at the comment. Up until their first meeting, nearly a year ago, Karusar had thought no one alive had expectations for her that were higher than her own.

Gloss, it seemed, strived to prove her wrong.

“Anything else you want to complain about?”

“Yes, actually.” Gloss seemed pleased at the opportunity to point out more issues she had with the way Karusar comported herself. “Argue less with your companions. Strive towards amiability. Stronger emotional bonds lead to more effective communication and less unnecessary conflict. Your affection for them is. Do not be a Cryptic, pretending as though it is not.”

Somewhere in the distance, just barely close enough to hear, an annoyed humming hinted at the presence of another. Oh, so Ana’s tagalong is still following us. Great to know.

Karusar let slip a few choice expletives, then pointed a finger at the spren. “I’m already being nice, for me. Expecting anything more is like asking an axehound to design a fabrial. Fuck you.”

“Hmm... sex acts between us are not, even in this small convergence between Realms.” Gloss grinned. “Now, Hesina’s attraction for you is! The sex acts could be, you should wake her up and check.”

Gloss’s words made Karusar think about Hesina, her mature beauty, the fantasies she’d already had about what the two could do together.

Not just the sex. It had been too long since Karusar had been in the arms of another, allowed a moment to let go of her tension, let herself feel safe. Storms, how badly she craved it.

Unbidden and uninvited, a different image came to her. Lirin, Naln, Salas, and Hesina, all looking at her with fear in their eyes.

Would that same emotion come to her in the dead of night, as passion bloomed? Would Hesina look at Karusar's hands and think of the death they had dealt?

How could she not? Only through ignorance could any think of Karusar as anything but a murderer.

Small yellow triangles, shockspren, bursting around her head, Karusar pushed Gloss away, and could suddenly feel the moment was passing. Her shadow began to adjust to the proper direction, and the surreal quality to the world around her disappeared as the universe righted itself. “Nice fight, looking forward to the next one, but I don't owe you shit. Go back to where you came from, I’ll get back to keeping watch.”

The spren began to fade from view, and Karusar felt shame at the naked confusion and hurt on her face. Gloss could be so strangely logical, yet at the same time, she felt earnest, young, naive.

Telling her off felt like Karusar had just kicked an axehound puppy.

“Not my problem,” Karusar muttered, sitting down once more. “She's just... some weird fucking thing. Butting in, saying stupid storming nonsense, trying to...”

Her voice trailed off as she felt her sisters began to wake once more, their instrumentation making clear their worries.

Storm them. Storm them, storm Gloss, storm Hesina.

Karusar scowled at nothing, and did her best to ignore the ball of emotional bile building in her heart.

I improve where I can. I train, I practice, I do my fucking best. But there's no point in pretending. You can't train a whitespine to be an axehound. Karusar curled into a ball, and tried to ignore the tears in her eyes.

Danahui performs, Nesh serves, Ana leads, and I attack. I fight. I hurt.

End of motherfucking story.

Chapter Text

-19-

Weakness

“A few interviews down, who rusting knows how many to go. Taking a ship to Kharbranth for the next one. If there are any benefits to my untimely demise and extremely timely remise, it’s that I can divorce myself enough from my body to ignore the seasickness.”

—Marionette’s Travelogue, next objective: retrieve Scalpel from the local authorities, written thirty-one days after arriving, local date Betabashes 1173

When Adolin had been warned that dalewillow root had a particularly strong flavor, they’d nodded along. After all, it was medicine. Powerful tastes often came with the territory.

“Adolin, are you having some sort of attack?” Jasnah asked, voice more curious than concerned.

They could see where she’d get that idea, considering Adolin’s face was scrunched up, their eyes watering, and their jaw numbly working to continue chewing. “Mmfine,” they managed to get out, trying to regain what dignity they could by fixing their posture. Less slouching in agony, more sitting up triumphantly.

In agony.

Dalewillow root was not so much bitter, as they’d been expecting, but sour, to a mind-numbing degree. But if they wanted to continue their gentle transition into the sort of appearance that would leave passersby with questions on their lips, Adolin would need to continue chewing a small piece of root until it lost the flavor, twice a day. The sensation was so strong, they kept expecting to see painspren emerge out of the upholstery to grip at their jaw, but none ever came.

Normally, Adolin preferred to do this while alone, if only because Shallan had a habit of making jokes at the sight, and often they were humorous enough to start Adolin laughing, then almost choking.

However, for this leg of the journey to the Shattered Plains, such privacy was unlikely to be found. The carriage they rode in was spacious, with enough room for all three of them, plus the two porters who were escorting them through the Unclaimed Hills, but not that spacious. Still, there was storage beneath for their belongings, and with the horses pulling them, they would make excellent time.

Adolin did their best not to think of Sureblood every time they heard the telltale huffs of equine breath and clatter of hooves on stone.

For the moment, they were sitting on a cushioned seat, their cousin directly across from them, while both porters and Shallan rode outside, in the front. She and Jasnah took turns switching positions, neither leaving the hired help alone for even a moment. Paranoid, perhaps, but after the problems they’d faced on the Wind’s Pleasure with unexpected assassins, Adolin wasn’t going to argue against such precautions.

Adolin was also trying to ignore that their personal pleas to take Vlatn, their captive, with them, rather than foisting him off to be hanged by the officials at New Natanatan, had gone unheeded.

“Dalewillow root?” Jasnah asked, eyes now firmly focused on the book in her lap.

Face no longer looking quite so apoplectic, Adolin relished the gradual lessening of the flavor. Either it was almost done, or their taste buds had finally given up and gone numb. “Yes,” they confirmed.

The two had never spoken of Adolin’s transition, nor their gender. Adolin had noticed their cousin had switched to using the pronouns they preferred, but otherwise seemed happy to avoid the topic as long as was possible.

With a clinical tone, Jasnah continued her point. “The longer you continue this, the harder it will be to hide.”

It seemed she had chosen to abandon her strategy of avoidance, though for what reason, Adolin had truly no clue.

“I know,” Adolin said, finally able to spit out the root and chuck it from the window. At least I’m still capable of that, even with one dead arm. Facing Jasnah head-on, Adolin tried not to sound petulant as they replied, “I’m not planning on hiding anything. Jasnah, even if I somehow retain my title as Father’s heir, I’m a cripple. My social standing would have been thoroughly ruined from my defeat, even before our house’s recent catastrophe. In the grand scheme of things, my not being a man shouldn’t even register.”

Jasnah’s painted lips tightened into a line, and when she spoke, it was with the long-suffering tone she often found when speaking to Adolin. “You should know nearly as well as I that such a perspective severely underestimates the capacity of the Alethi court to stay apprised of every weakness possible.”

Weakness. The fire that had been burning in Adolin, pushing them to confront rather than to back down, sputtered and died.

Who they were. What they were exploring. A weakness.

Could House Kholin afford any further weaknesses?

“Storms. That was ill-said,” Jasnah said, a sigh trailing behind the words. “Cousin, I do not think worse of you for this personal revelation. Considering your recent injuries, I celebrate the choice to pursue avenues once closed to you. If you wish to read, I will teach you. If you seek scholarship, I will fight for your right to do so. But just as with my own departure from the Vorin faith, these choices have consequences, and it is better that you think of them now than to—”

Before she could continue the lecture on personal responsibility, the carriage stopped suddenly, nearly causing Adolin to fall forward from their seat.

It was only old reflexes pushing ill-used muscles that saved them from the embarrassment, as they reached out with their good hand and gripped the window to their left, stabilizing them, before looking out of it, just as Jasnah made a sound of irritation.

They’d been passing by a cliff, only to be met with a group of chulls pulling wagons. “Another traveler,” Adolin told their cousin before she could look out, “someone passing in the opposite direction, and... oh, he’s walking towards us. Thaylen, a merchant, and...” Their eyes finally caught sight of what was in some of the wagons, behind bars. “...he’s a slaver.”

Adolin was a little sad to see that was the case. For a moment, they’d hoped the passerby would be trading in fashionable outfits, much preferable to the more mundane human flesh.

It wasn’t as though they hated their current look (a mix of a masculine trousers with feminine blouse, in divergent but complimentary blue hues, the left sleeve cut to match the right, while Adolin kept a simple glove on their safehand) but it was getting a bit old, and they could always use another top.

Jasnah reacted to the news with a subtle shift in expression, her eyes narrowing, her hands clenching. “I’ll speak with him.” That stated, she vacated the inside of the carriage, leaving Adolin by themself.

“Mmm...” The buzzing sound came from directly behind Adolin. “She is unwell.”

“Jezerezeh’s eyes!” After Adolin recovered from the shock, their only working hand clutching their chest, they turned to look at the wood and confirm the presence of Pattern on the grain of the material. “S-she is?” They refocused their attention to the window, barely hearing the murmuring of conversation happening outside, too quiet for them to properly hear. “I mean, she had a bout of madness earlier in life, but we don’t really talk about that.”

“No, not Jasnah,” Pattern clarified.

That left one reasonable option. “Shallan?”

“Yes...” Pattern made an anxious humming sound. “She is breaking. She will not talk. Not... to me. Mmm.”

Adolin sympathized. Sometimes, she seems normal. But ever since the attack, ever since Kaladin left, she’s started to drift away. Even that diagnosis felt off, a misunderstanding, but how would they know the truth if Shallan wouldn’t talk, not even to her spren? If only Kaladin was here. A soft yearning hit Adolin, and not for the last time, they wished they would get to the warcamps already.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Adolin asked, and Pattern only had time to produce a humming sound that seemed more agreement than refusal when the carriage door opened and the subject of their conversation entered. Shallan seemed to be her normal self, a tired smile on her face, a sketchbook held through the fabric of her safehand sleeve. “Any new sketches?” Adolin asked her.

“A few. A local variety of snarlbrush here, a unique cremling species there.” Setting her drawing pad beside her as she took a seat, Shallan’s enthusiasm dampened as she changed the topic. “More to the point... evidently, we need to be on the look-out for trouble. Bandits and deserters.”

Without thinking, Adolin felt the desire to clench their right hand, to raise it up in a show of confident bravado, but of course that wasn’t possible, not with the flesh of that limb gray and lifeless. Instead, they pushed away that brief dip into despair and gave Shallan a disarming smile. “That’s to be expected. Ever since the war began, the problems with banditry have gotten worse, but the risk is overstated.” Father had wanted to patrol the area regardless, but...

“You don’t understand.” Shallan met Adolin’s gaze, and though they could see fear there, it was red streamers of anticipationspren that began to appear out of the cushions around her. “The merchant, Tvlakv, says that the situation is changing. The criminals are moving east, fleeing, though he claims not to know from what. All he has is word from the mouths of others, but it is enough to send him as far from the Shattered Plains as he can get.”

Now there was a question to ponder. What could be causing that? Was another of the highprinces setting out to do what Dalinar had once promised? A pack of whitespines pushing out their human rivals? Or... could it be something larger, and far more deadly?

They looked to Shallan, and resolved to ponder the matter further another time. Her spren had asked for Adolin’s help, and he would get it. “Shallan, why do you seem... eager, about that?”

“Eager?” she asked, and when Adolin gestured to the anticipationspren, her body language shifted. A stiffening of the muscles, a straightening of the back, a silence in her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Shallan didn’t say a word, her attention fixed on her sketchpad as she moved from page to page. Is she even looking for something? Or does she just want to look like she’s busy?

“Are you feeling like you could use a fight?” They tried to grin at her, though Adolin feared their worries would cloud the expression’s typical exuberance. “I understand that. Storms, I feel it all the time. We’re trapped here, day after day, just waiting until we reach where we’re going. Action to break up the tedium.”

“That’s it,” she said, voice numb. “Boredom.”

Where is her wit? Her rejoinders? Her spark?

Even as Shallan affected a relaxed appearance, it felt wrong. Like she was trying to emulate a person she barely knew.

Adolin tried moving on to lighter topics. Asking her about wildlife, giving her chances to discuss her studies, even diversions into their mutual appreciation for the missing Windrunner.

Nothing worked. Shallan’s answers remained short, and when the opportunity came to sit out front once more, she took it, leaving Adolin to sit with Jasnah and one of their porters.

In all their years, Adolin had never felt this... powerless.

They couldn’t fight. They could barely walk. Worst of all, they couldn’t do a thing to help the person before them. Even in Father’s darkest days, when the drink had threatened to consume him, Adolin had been able to comfort Renarin.

It left them feeling empty. A hollow shell of a person, waiting for the world to change around them, with no way to affect it.

It’s like I’m back in the hospital, Adolin thought, as others drifted to sleep around them.

If this is what my future holds... I’m not sure how I can bear it.

Chapter Text

-20-

Paint my Face

TEN YEARS AGO

“Good job today,” the cantankerous company cook said in Azish, and thanks to years of immersion and practice with the language, Karusar could pick the unsaid, ‘Thank you for not threatening anyone,’ behind her words.

With a nod, smile melting off her face, Karusar handed over her apron and walked off.

Every mercenary in Nakku’s Nails worked camp jobs, with a rotating roster that was fair in the stereotypical Azish fashion: superficially so. There were many rules and regulations involved, and they just so happened to pawn off the least desirable jobs to the youngest and newest members of the company.

At first, Karusar had struggled doing things like serving the other's food or cleaning the common spaces, but eventually, even she had worked out the secret.

When she went to the mess for food herself, fresh from a long day on patrol or standing guard or, more recently, fighting in some skirmish, the last thing Karusar wanted was a scowl and a glare like the kind that typically sat on her own face. With practice, she’d gotten good at the unassuming smile and small words of encouragement that came with serving the other mercenaries.

Walking back to her dorm, Karusar reflected on the feeling still fading from her body, similar to shaking off a dream or getting a minor head blow. It happened after her service work, and when she came back to camp from the odd night of music-making in whatever local community would take her. It's nothing, she told herself firmly. It feels odd to mess with my usual image, that's all.

Before she could contemplate the matter further, Karusar was stopped with a hand on her shoulder. “One moment, Sar.”

The worn, weathered voice of Elix, veteran of the company and Karusar's model of grumpiness, helped her relax as she turned to look down at the middle-aged Azish woman. “Yes?”

“We need to talk, about you and Beynith.”

Karusar’s heart began beating fast, too fast, and words rushed out of her mouth with no heed to thought or consideration. “I checked the company rules, there's nothing against it!” Beynith hadn't cared, but Karusar didn't want to risk her job, not even for a very pretty girl.

Not again.

Elix started to sigh, only for a ragged cough to interrupt it. After refusing any help, the woman quickly recovered, then gave the sixteen year old before her a half-amused eye. “It's a smart choice, kid. Romances inside the company can fray, but they don't have the same... ‘weaknesses’, that might come from dating the wrong civilian.”

A lesson I don't need to learn twice, Karusar thought with a wince. After her disastrous first experience, the things that skyeel of a girl had done by abusing Karusar's trust, she was lucky to still be employed by Nakku’s Nails at all.

“Keep her happy,” Elix told her, tone faux forceful, before walking off, and leaving Karusar to return to her barrack.

Beynith was already at her cot.

As the two of them grew older, Karusar had only gotten wider, taller, and thicker. Not the most womanly of builds, but a great one for the job. Beynith’s development had taken a different route, leaving her more than two heads shorter, with a wiry build better for speed than power. The company’s richly patterned uniforms always looked baggy on her, but Karusar appreciated the rumpled style, since it went well with Beynith's lopsided grins.

One of those very expressions was sitting on the girl’s face as she stood there, trying to play Karusar's lunui, badly. The sound she was producing from bow on badly tuned strings was ear-grating, and she was gripping the wood far too hard.

She's going to break it! An internal chorus of terrified music played in concert with the fearspren sprouting around her feet, and without a word, Karusar stomped over and snatched the instrument from Beynith’s hands. With careful precision, she destringed it properly and put it back in its case.

“Sar! Gemheart! Come on, don't be mad!” Beynith complained, weakly beating her balled fists on Karusar's arm. “I just wanted to play with it a little!”

“Don't.” Karusar's voice was quiet, and trembled around even that single syllable.

Beynith looked down at the globs of purple goo surrounding Karusar’s boots and put the clues together. “Not angry. Oh fuck every Kadasix in the eye one at a time, love, I’m sorry. It's just...” The shorter girl gently guided Karusar down to her cot, then sat beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “When you invited me out to see you play as your musical alter ego, you seemed so casual with it. I didn't think it was so precious.” Beynith sighed. “I was wrong.”

“Danahui was...” Karusar paused, frowned, shook her head, and started over, “I may have seemed careless at the time, but trust me. I know what I’m doing.” Then, feeling a strange nudge she couldn't properly explain, Karusar leaned over and kissed Beynith gently on the forehead. “Everything is okay. No harm done.”

They sat in silence, half-embracing each other, for minutes on end.

Even with the situation settled, Beynith had brushed up to sensitive memories for Karusar, and she could tell. Despite their closeness, she didn’t know a thing about the Unkalaki girl’s life before the company, and Karusar wasn’t exactly eager to share.

“It’s funny,” Beynith said, her good humor soaking into her words like jam into bread. “I used to think you hated me.”

Karusar winced. “Too strong a word. Getting knocked to the ground wasn’t fun, but it got me to improve.” You were infuriating. You were captivating. I honestly might have learned Azish just to understand what you were saying to me. The memory of it made her smile. The slow realization she’d had, of how many of Beynith’s taunts had been flirts.

When Beynith shifted over to the end of the cot, Karusar nearly fell over, which may have been the point. “C’mon, get over here,” Beynith told her, patting a hand on her thighs. Heat rushing to her cheeks, Karusar did as she was told, and was rewarded with the feeling of her cheek resting on that well-cared for Azish warskirt, Beynith’s deft fingers running through her short, red hair. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“Heh.” Above Karusar, Beynith beamed down, her brilliant teeth a contrast with her dark brown skin tone, her floofy hair a cloud surrounding her head. “Now, I know we just started our second tour a few months ago, but... what if, we don’t reup next time? Not immediately? Sure, we lose the bonus, but we can save our money, head west, have some time for ourselves.”

Heart beating quicker just at the thought of it, Karusar kept her face neutral, even as she met her lover’s gaze and was disarmed by how open and honest she looked. “What would we do there?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“I could show you around. A little tour of the empire.” Beynith’s fingers started to twirl, curling a lock of Karusar’s hair around her finger. It was funny. She seemed to love doing this, but had been honest early in their relationship that she preferred hair like her own, black and curly and dense. It had been strangely comforting to hear, a confirmation that she wasn’t with Karusar just for her exotic heritage. “Then, I could take you back home. Introduce you to my family.”

“Your family?” The very word made her feel nauseous, and not necessarily in a bad way.

With a soft snort, the Azish mercenary reached down and cupped Karusar’s cheek, brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Did my girlfriend get replaced by a talking chicken? Yes, my family.” Her nails started to work Karusar’s scalp, and it felt too good. It made her body relax, whether she wanted it or not, and brought to mind memories of Mother taking a brush to her hair. “Now, of course I’ll have to explain what I’m doing, falling in love with an Eastern barbarian. An illiterate one!”

“I know women’s script,” Karusar complained, wishing she could sound indignant, rather than warmly placid. Stupid Beynith, stupid scalp. “It’s not my fault your writing system is incomprehensible.”

“Hmm... no, that can’t be it, gemheart. After all, I comprehended it.” With a rolling laugh that sounded like a proud proclamation of her self-claimed status as Funniest Woman on Roshar, Beynith got back to the topic. “It might take time, but I think they’ll like you. If I can come around to appreciating your obscure charms, there’s no way they’ll be able to resist.” She accentuated the statement with a wink.

Karusar found herself marveling at Beynith, wordlessly. Appreciating every small scar, memorizing the furrow of her brow and the curve of her cheeks, admiring the way she seemed to search Karusar’s face for signs that her jibes had gone too far. A silent snowfall of passionspren descended around her, and Karusar didn’t know which one of them was responsible.

Without thinking, Karusar said what was on her mind. “What do your people do for marriage?”

“Depends,” Beynith told her, not missing a single beat in the conversation. “One of us will have to file the right forms, be ‘the man’ in the relationship.” She pretended to give it some thought, then grinned down at Karusar. “I know you can be sensitive on how big and burly you are, so I can catch that arrow for you. There’ll be poetry and prayers and all that rubbish. In my province, we have a tradition, where before the ceremony, we’d paint each other’s faces.”

“Huh,” Karusar replied, eloquently.

Poking a finger into Karusar’s cheek, Beynith admitted, “I can’t promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“No phalluses.”

“No promises.”

The moment felt like it could last forever, as Karusar let herself imagine that. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll go see your family.” The words came out wet, and thick, and Beynith didn’t know what to do with the tears streaming silently down Karusar’s cheeks.

There was an arrow in Beynith’s throat.

Karusar had looked away, just for a second, but even as she and the others had laid down a hail of projectiles to frighten off those seeking to cross their line, protecting some invisible boundary, a meaningless idea of whose territory ended where, her lover had been hit.

For endless seconds, Karusar simply stared. The shaft didn’t delve deep into Beynith’s flesh, barely more than the head of the weapon had pierced her. Just beneath the chin.

Blood was pooling, swelling, and Beynith dropped her weapon to grope at the shaft. Painspren stretched out, small sinuous orange hands grasping the injury without touch.

“Don’t,” Karusar hissed, forgetting the fighting around them, covering the wound with her hands. Pressure, but not too much, don’t want to choke her. Storms. She had a little field medicine training, enough to know this was lucky. A shot loosed too soon, from a weak bow. Still, Beynith was bleeding, and if the arrow was removed too soon, it would get worse.

Memories came to Karusar, unbidden, of shaking a lifeless body with small, clumsy hands. The moment when she’d realized she was alone.

No, not her. Another girl. Karusar couldn’t be her.

Still, the memories came, and threatened to paralyze her.

Then she noticed Beynith mouthing a word, unable to get it out, and so Karusar shouted on her behalf. “Surgeon! Help!”

Days later, Karusar refused to leave Beynith’s bedside.

Let them penalize me for missing mess duty. They’ll have to drag me away.

There were dozens of other wounded present, all being treated as best they could by the surgeons and healers of Nakku’s Nails, but Karusar barely noticed they were there.

Beynith had been sleeping, mostly, a task helped by the sedatives she was on.

That was good. She needed to rest.

“Sar.”

This is my fault. The thought came to Karusar, over and over. If I’d done better, if I’d seen it coming, if I’d been positioned in front of her, this wouldn’t have happened. Once again, her weakness had borne a price that another had paid. Someone she loved.

Never again. I’ve been too frivolous. No more nights out as Danahui. No more afternoons playing a lovesick fool. Either I perfect myself, or I die trying.

“Karusar!” A hand gripped her shoulder, hauling her around, forcing her to turn to face Elix. A storm had overtaken the woman’s face, but Karusar couldn’t bring herself to give a damn. “This is important.”

“Not as important as her,” she replied immediately.

Elix looked like she was seriously considering socking Karusar in the stomach. “It’s about her. By the grace of Tashi, snap out of it. She’s going on medical leave.”

“Oh.” Karusar chewed on that idea, before giving a curt nod. “Good. She needs it. I’ll go with her.” After all, they’d been planning on the trip anyway.

“Don’t make that decision lightly.” Letting out a huff that almost seemed to deflate the elder mercenary, Elix grabbed a nearby chair and took a seat, steepling her fingers before her face as she considered her words. “Medical leave only extends to the injured, and their spouse.” She didn’t say outright that Karusar didn’t qualify. That would be too impolite.

The older woman’s eyes flicked down, expecting a boiling pool of angerspen to appear at Karusar’s feet.

None came. She sagged in her chair, small humanlike teeth growing around her, as the anguishspren often had in the days since the injury. “We’ll get married then.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Elix’s voice was softer now, and delicate, as though afraid the wrong word might break Karusar. “The paperwork it would take to finalize the union takes time to be processed; she’d be halfway to Azir by the time it was done.”

“Then I’ll quit. She’s not leaving without me.” She can’t leave. I can’t be alone again.

Before Elix could say a word against that, Karusar felt the sleeve of her uniform get tugged, weakly, towards the bed. Beynith was awake, and without sitting up, was shaking her head.

“Babe, please, I can’t—”

The injured girl crossed her pinkies, a Makibaki sign of ‘no’.

If Karusar had any more tears to shed, they’d have been beading in her eyes. “Why not?”

With a frustrated grunt, Beynith reached over to her bedside table, picking up a writing board and pen, scribbling out a set of Azish characters before holding it up.

“She’s saying, ‘You’d face fines. Lose all your money. Go into debt.’ She’s right. Yaezir be blessed, she’s right.” Something in Elix’s tone carried an unsaid apology. Just because she knew this was the case, didn’t mean she was happy about it.

Hands clenching so tightly that Karusar’s copper skin paled, she tried to keep her breathing steady, and she failed. “My tour isn’t done for a year and a half. More than eight hundred days.” Karusar met her lover’s gaze, and saw she was crying.

Beynith wrote another response, the characters on the page smudged by her tears. This one said, ‘You don’t know that for sure. Maybe I’ll feel better before then.’

She wouldn’t. By the time Beynith returned to Nakku’s Nails, Karusar had left the company.

“I don’t want to lose you...” The words felt like broken glass, scraping out of Karusar’s throat on the way out.

Beynith had a simple reply.

‘You can’t. Distance doesn’t matter. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.’

That, at least, had been right. Over the following decade, they carved out time together whenever they could. Beynith tried to keep up her good spirits, but it was no secret that her injury, the loss of her voice, wore her down. Azish standard sign wasn’t nearly as good for humor, she would complain.

Letters helped her self-expression, bridged the gap of the grand distances between them... even when some of their correspondence went mysteriously missing.

Chapter Text

-21-

In Her Name

“Started hearing rumors of what Ironsights is up to. Does she realize the risk of contaminating the locals with the concept of firearms? I mean, replicating it is probably beyond them, but still. It's, like, the principle of the thing. Whatever. We’re putting the investigation on a brief hold to handle a personal project. Yaaaaaaay.”

—Marionette’s Travelogue, next objective: talk to a fellow walking corpse, written forty days after arriving, local date Betababah 1173

The carriage stopped.

With that, the peace of the evening fell apart.

Adolin had actually been enjoying hearing Shallan tell them all about her studies, even if many of the concepts went over their head. It reminded them of their days in Kharbranth, the visits to Adolin’s hospital room, precious days shared between the two of them and Kaladin.

It had been stupid of them to think the moment could last.

“Shallan,” Jasnah asked, even as she was opening the carriage door from the outside, “your presence is required.”

With that request, the Shallan who had just been eagerly sharing her theories on cremling ecology to Adolin was gone, and the Shallan who seemed to think herself their personal protector was back. Without a second look at them, she departed, and was quickly replaced by their two porters, trailing fearspren with every step, the carriage door shut firmly behind them.

“What’s going on?” Adoln asked, voice hushed.

Garlan, their Natan horse-handler, was rubbing his blue hands together, eyes on the floor of the carriage. “Bandits,” was all he whispered, and yet with that much dread, it sounded as though he may as well have said ‘Death’.

Their other porter, a Makibaki woman evidently interested in traveling to the Shattered Plains, said nothing. She didn’t have to, with that hunch in her shoulders, that empty acceptance visible on her face.

Bandits... Adolin considered. We’d been warned, but... I’d hoped we could avoid them. A foolish idea, perhaps. They had horses, a carriage, and one look at those traveling would tell any criminal worth their blades that they had much to take. A risk, considering their status, but to men surviving through banditry in the Unclaimed Hills, that only meant a trip to the Tranquiline Halls awaited those they took from. They think we’re easy prey.

“I’m going to make this simple,” came Jasnah’s voice, clear and loud and authoritative as Adolin had ever heard it. “Leave now, and we shall pretend you never obstructed our path. Continue this idiocy, and your lives are forfeit.”

Something in the air changed, and Adolin wondered if they could really hear the sound of a crowd of men gasping, or if that was entirely an invention of their imagination. They certainly couldn’t hear the sounds of Blades being summoned, even if they knew that must have been what happened.

“You know we can’t do that. We’re deserters, brightness.” The voice that replied to Jasnah was low, intense, and carried well. It also sounded numb. “Storm coming. We need everything you have. Your Blades don’t change that. Only sweetens the spoils.”

“He’s right,” Garlan whispered. “Almighty above, he’s right. Even if they... there are dozens of them; I saw bows. They’d need Shardplate to stand a chance.” He ran his fingers through his dense white hair, tears in his eyes.

If they were ordinary women, you’d be right. “It will be okay. Trust me.” Adolin stretched, ignoring the pain that brought out in the twitching muscles on one side of their back, and put their hand on Garlan’s shoulder. “Trust me.”

He met Adolin’s gaze, and the fearspren began to fade away. Or perhaps, they were drawn to closer sources of terror?

Outside the carriage, the world was dead quiet. The bandits are afraid, regardless of what they say. But how long could that last?

“We gave you a choice,” Jasnah said, and then she must have done something, stepped forward or changed the angle of her Blade or even just breathed too quickly, because suddenly she grunted, and Adolin could recognize the grunt of pain that came from being hit with an arrow.

The battle outside began. There were no shouts, no screams, no telltale clatter of metal on metal. Only the mutterings of boots on stone, and of bodies falling where they lay.

For every interminable moment that the combat continued, Adolin felt their uselessness grow. Once, they would have been out there, fighting with Shallan and Jasnah, even without the surgebinding benefits they had.

But instead, Adolin sat. They waited. They listened. That’s all I’m good for anymore.

In the hospital, even back in the warcamps, so many people had told Adolin not to think less of themself for their injury, for their mistakes. Often, Adolin agreed with them, but in moments like this, such words rang in their head once more, empty platitudes that spoke to a deafening ignorance.

“It’s done.”

Adolin had been so mired in their self-pity, they’d missed the cessation of the conflict, and the opening of the carriage door.

Jasnah was commanding. “I’ll join both of you at the front once more. We must leave, now.” She paused. “Shallan, watch over Adolin.”

The others moved as Jasnah told them to. That’s the way of it. Adolin could only think of a single member of their family capable of speaking with as much authority as Jasnah, and it wasn’t the king.

The young woman who returned to the carriage was wearing a now-tattered havah. There were rips and cuts in half a dozen spots, and with all of them, small splatters of blood were soaking into the fabric. Yet, there were no wounds. Just like with Kaladin, Adolin thought, remembering the night they’d escaped Kharbranth.

One particular rip in her outfit exposed a small stretch of Shallan’s midriff, the sort of exposure that was so taboo in the current climate of Vorin high society. Normally, any hint of immodesty on her behalf had Shallan’s cheeks as red as her hair. “...” At the moment, Shallan’s cheeks were pale. Her eyes unfocused. Her hands on her Blade, which she hadn’t dismissed. No, she simply laid the rather short length of silvery metal across her lap, both hands upon it.

“Shallan?” Adolin asked. “Shallan, are you okay?”

The scholar said nothing. She simply sat, as the carriage began moving once more. There, and yet, not.

The sight made Adolin’s guts squirm in discomfort. Storms. Can she even hear me? As best as they could tell, she was in shock. Or... or perhaps, simply not mentally present? A defense mechanism against...

Adolin blinked, realization coming to them, and felt like an utter fool. After a quick breath to steady themself, Adolin braced one hand on the wall, and then stood, carefully walking on legs that felt liable to fall out from under them with the wrong bump. They managed the small feat, reaching the other side, where Shallan sat, and took a place next to her, reaching a gloved hand out to rest on her shoulder.

“I served as a soldier, Shallan. I’ve killed people too.”

That, at long last, got a response from her. “It isn’t my first time.” Her voice was steady. Solid. Unwavering.

“I remember, on the ship—”

“No. Before that.” From somewhere in the carriage, an anxious humming filled the space that felt a twin to Adolin’s own concerns. “You don’t know. You don’t really know me, Brightness Adolin.”

It hurt to hear that. But it wouldn’t make Adolin stop. “You’re feeling empty. Numb. You think you should feel something, and that you’re broken because you don’t. You just killed people, I don’t know how many, and the fact you can’t bring yourself to feel a storming thing is killing you.”

That got her to finally look at them, to meet their eyes. She felt more present, but she was still Bodyguard Shallan, not Scholar Shallan. “I’m used to it. It’s... better. Better than feeling the pain.” Yet there were cracks in the stone, fissures forming to hint at the upheaval underneath.

“Of course it is.” They ran their fingers over the length of the metal. Whose spren had this been, in the time before the Recreance? “It’s easier. But you’re not alone, Shallan. I’m here. However you feel, whether it’s anger or fear or guilt or anything else, it’s okay. I won’t judge you.” How could they? After all the people they’d killed. Learning to cope with the death they wrought had once been a necessary skill in the life of Adolin Kholin.

“Guilt?” Shallan’s eyes hardened, her brow furrowing. “They were deserters. Planning to kill us. Brightness Jasnah offered mercy, they rejected it.”

On impulse, Adolin agreed with that. “When it comes to being a soldier, there is no trait more necessary, more integral, than loyalty. Those who abandon their comrades have turned their backs on their honor.” Old words, straight from the mouth of the Blackthorn himself. True, even he had admitted some deserters were the fault of the temperment of a poor commander, but as a rule, they were traitors to their people.

And yet... Shallan was hurting, even if she didn't want to admit to it. They had to reach for that, connect to it. And as they sought a rebuttal, they found themself remembering faces and names they’d once tried to forget. “Deserters are still people. Dangerous people, there’s no doubt about that, and if I could still fight, I would have been there by your side, doing my part to keep us all alive. But...” Adolin sighed. “I’ve met men who deserted, Shallan. Gotten to know them, only to learn later they’d run from their duty.”

Shallan’s eyes fell on her Blade once more, her face reflected in its sheen. “It was them or us.” Her tone was chipped, fraying, and Adolin felt as though they could hear the Shallan they knew better behind it, beginning to waver.

“It was.” They thought of their first battle. Flashes of images and sounds and smells from their many exploits. The Thrill had guided them, sometimes, and yet... and yet... “They still shrink back in fear. They still had dreams and hopes and families. They still have that moment, as the Blade cuts through their spine, where they’re alive one moment, and dead the next.”

The Blade disappeared, and suddenly Shallan’s arms were around Adolin’s neck, her face buried in their shoulder, tears drenching their silk shirt. “I didn’t... I had to... I didn’t have a choice, they were counting on me, and he would have...”

Unsure exactly what she meant, Adolin simply used their only working arm to hold her close, whispering quiet words of support, of comfort, of encouragement, as Shallan shattered.

Eventually, by Kelek’s luck, she fell asleep.

How could I think I’m useless? Adolin wondered, smiling to see the peace Shallan had found in slumber. I’m not a sword. I’m a person.

They’d had setbacks. The loss of Vlatn, despite their best efforts. They’d failed Shallan before.

Memories from a lifetime ago, their mother’s face, came to them. She treasured my smile. My love, my laugh, my open heart. If they were to find their feet, remake themself, then perhaps it was fitting they do so in her name.

Chapter Text

-22-

Dressed in Black

NINE YEARS AGO

Karusar once felt that she’d grown to fit the uniform of Nakku’s Nails.

It was a bit eye-catching for her tastes, following the Azish style of patterns and colors which held some sort of meaning that only a fancy scribe would know.

When she’d first joined the company, it had been too big for her, and she yearned to one day fill it out properly. As the years passed, that wish came true, even as her soul soured, her spite simmered, her scowl settled. Aesthetically, she still wasn’t a fan of the damn thing, but it grew to mean something.

The uniform meant she was part of something greater. A mercenary of Nakku’s Nails, upholding their proud reputation with every assignment. It only spurred on her natural drive for self-improvement.

“Gather your belongings and leave. We’ve given you enough warning already.”

“Please, we don’t wish to be forceful. Do as we say.”

“You’re all wasting your time. These lakers probably don’t know a single word you’re saying.”

“Move it! We don’t have all day! In Yaezir’s name, you’ll leave the damn building or you’ll die in it!”

On this day, Karusar felt constrained by her uniform.

She stood there, on the shores of the Purelake, watching as her fellows, her comrades, her sisters-in-arms, strode through the knee-deep water and did their jobs.

Siyawn and Yilla were rounding up everyone who hadn’t already left the small community, cajoling at first and shoving as they felt necessary, their weapons sheathed but clearly present as an active threat. One of them was going about the task more violently than the other, but neither were gentle.

Nalinae and Shantash were looting the homes that had already been vacated. The residents of... actually, Karusar didn’t know if this village or town or collection of lakehomes had a name. If it did, she hadn’t been told. Regardless, the people who lived here... who had lived here, were only permitted to take what they could carry. Anything left behind, the mercenaries collected.

Karusar stayed behind with the wagons and chulls. Whenever the others brought her more spoils, it was her job to properly sort them according to predefined categories. The belongings, she was told, would be sent to the Yulayan who had hired them. Evidently, these people, this land, fell within the man’s sphere of influence, and he had hired Nakku’s Nails to clear a wide swath of area for some new project of his.

What the shitstain of a person would do with the well-used clothes and personal pieces of pottery and collections of cremling shells that she was sorting in the wagons, Karusar didn’t know.

Her muscles were tight, her back straight, and she had to keep checking the ground beneath her feet to see if she was drawing angerspren.

I just need to get through the day... she told herself. Next time they try to put me on an assignment like this, I’ll play sick, or injure myself. Siyawn was getting into a protracted shouting match with a man well past his prime, her speaking Azish, him speaking Selay. I won’t be a part of this again.

It was an easy promise to make.

Why didn’t it feel like it was enough?

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about...

...nights spent as Danahui, visiting Purelakers and trading songs for fish, making merry and having fun?

...days spent poor and hungry and cold, watching people with eyes as bright as hers turning them down to her in disgust?

...men and women from two lifetimes in the past, who she had once considered family, who had served with loyalty, yet ultimately lived and died at the whims of people like her?

Karusar was so worried about blood boiling at her feet, she didn’t even notice as small spectral teeth grew on her uniform, agonyspren come to feast.

It was no surprise as to why. Watching as the old man tried to shove Siyawn, only to fall into the lake from her rebuff, it felt as though a thousand cremlings were skittering and gnawing and slicing her organs apart. Her skin was too hot, too tight, too itchy. A chorus, a cacophony, pulsed inside her mind, three instruments, three voices, screaming at her to stop watching, to act.

Loyalty stayed her hand.

“Big mistake,” Siyawn said, looking down as her quarry grabbed a rock from the water, hefting the stone as though it could change anything. Even from twenty feet away, Karusar could see her Yeziesh comrade move to pull her sword from its sheath. “You won’t live to regret it.”

It wasn’t until Karusar’s boots filled with water that she realized she was moving. Sprinting. Sword out, desperate to make it in time. And when it reached her conscious mind just what she’d begun to do, Karusar accepted it. I was never going to just watch. Nu Ralik guide my hands, I will be better than this.

It was close.

If Karusar had started to run even an eyeblink later, the steel of Siyawn’s blade would have found purchase in the man’s neck. Karusar’s parry was flawed, her footing sloppy, but considering it still saved the man’s life, it was acceptable.

“Sar?” Siyawn asked, befuddled. As if she was Karusar’s friend. As if she owed the cruel woman anythi—

No, wait... she did. Obviously. They were mercenaries of the same company. And that... that was supposed to trump all else.

Perhaps Karusar could have walked it back, as the full understanding of the situation began to dawn on her. Written what she’d done off as a passionate gesture of protection, and taken it upon herself to handle getting the old man out without hurting him. Unlike Siyawn, Karusar actually knew Selay, or at least some dialects of it. The others would accept it, probably. Heat of the moment. Overzealous youth. Just don’t let it happen again.

But as the sunlight overhead glinted off the shaved, polished head of the woman before her, at the ego in her eyes and the cruel set of her jaw, Karusar did something foolish.

“Put your weapon away. Let the man leave at his own pace.” Even at sixteen, Karusar had learned to affect a rolling growl under her voice, an unspoken promise of violence.

Siyawn didn’t seem to think much of it, judging by her smirk. “Soft-hearted Sar. We were paid to kick them out, and there’s a schedule to follow. If you’ve got a problem with my methods, take them up with Elix when we’re—” and then Siyawn stopped talking.

After all, it was difficult to form words when all the air in her lungs had been knocked out by a gut punch. Doubling over, Siyawn’s grip failed her, dropping her sword in the water.

Turning away from her, Karusar rounded on the man, and did her best to remember the right phrases in his tongue. “Go. Please.” He looked skeptical, and Karusar let out a huff. “In Vun Makak’s name, go!” Hopefully, the fact she knew the proper god to swear to aloud would prove to him she wasn’t another dry-footed fool.

She watched as his doubt warred with fear, and to her relief, the latter finally won out.

He ran.

Karusar’s victory was short lived, as suddenly one of her legs went out from under her, kicked from behind by Siyawn. Her head went under the warm water, briefly, and just as she began to push herself up, the others intervened.

What a fool. When she spotted the approach of Yilla and the others from the corner of her eyes, Karusar had actually thought they’d be helping her. That was before she was pinned, restrained, and tied with rope. Put in the cart with the goods they’d stolen from those people’s homes. Gagged to shut her up.

Soaking wet and helpless, Karusar was forced to watch as her fellow mercenaries of Nakku’s Nails finished the day’s assignment.

Clinging tightly to her skin, the uniform of her company was a mark of shame.

“We can still fix this,” Elix told herself, leaning back in her chair and pushing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

They were in her field office, an hour’s ride from the shore of the Purelake, and Karusar was freshly unbound. Her wrists still chafed, and her jaw ached, but that wasn’t where Karusar’s mind was.

The sixteen-year old girl kept her head down while Elix talked. Glaring at the ground, her emotions a tempest not even she fully understood. Brown jets of exhaustionspren rose near her, broadcasting her fatigue for any to see.

After a small but intense coughing fit, Elix continued. “You’ll have to apologize to Siyawn, publicly. Swallow your pride, and do it. She might grill you over the fire, see how much she can make you sweat. Let her. Give her the satisfaction, and there’s a chance she won’t file a charge, which means no dock from your pay.”

“Fuck that.”

A fist slammed down onto her desk. “By the light of the Kadasix, Karusar, shut your mouth and listen. I’m telling you how to come out of this clean!” Maybe there was more she had to say, but again her illness made that difficult, setting her to hacking hard enough to cough out a lung.

Karusar thought of how she’d gotten to where she sat. None of us can come out of this ‘clean’, she thought. Out loud, all she said was, “And if I don’t apologize?”

Elix let out a long-suffering sigh, one that Karusar felt was more directed at her than at whatever was rotting her from the inside. What an honor. “At minimum, you lose any pay for this job. Possibly even owe the company spheres from your personal purse. But that assumes you keep your position, which isn’t guaranteed. Attacking your comrade is a serious offense, Karusar. There’s a real chance that, if you don’t work to make this right, you could find yourself out on your ass.”

“Oh.” The tempest inside quieted, replaced with... relief? Karusar was surprised by that emotion, confounded by it. Rather than address it, confront it, she looked up at Elix.

Her mentor, combat trainer, and friend was starting to go gray. She can’t be that old, can she? Karusar had to wonder. Perhaps it was simply the stress of her position. Then, Elix’s wiry frame bent over, a flurry of coughs hitting her like a stormwall. It went on longer than Karusar was used to hearing, and her sympathy grew worse as the woman spat out a thick knot of blood from her throat. Perhaps her stress had a more dire source.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh’?” Elix demanded, hoarse voice cracking like a whip.

Moving her broad shoulders in a lazy shrug, Karusar found she couldn’t look away from Elix any longer. “I don’t know, I just... you weren’t there. What we were sent there to do, it wasn’t right.”

“You weren’t aware of the parameters before being deployed?”

Karusar clenched her hands, and now the blood started to boil, now the angerspren came. Only when the anger she felt was directed at herself. “I’ve been busy. Training.” With Beynith gone, time in the yard had consumed her focus, only broken by her duties or a night out as Danahui.

Massaging her fingers against her temples, Elix looked liable to strangle her. “There are forms for this, you imbecile. Properly filed, you’re allowed to stay in camp on moral leave.”

Of course there’s fucking paperwork for being offended. That’s what she got for working in an Empire-run mercenary group. “I can’t write or read Azish, you know that.”

“Then have someone else do it for you!” Rising from her chair, Elix started to pace. “You didn’t know, which helps your case. Yaezir be blessed, you can keep that in mind going forward.” With her hands on her hips now, Elix’s elbows bent out at sharp angles, made all the more noticeable with her sleeves rolled up. She was losing weight. Muscle definition. Being hollowed out.

Karusar didn’t say anything.

“What now?” Elix asked, temper still simmering in her tone.

“I don’t...” Karusar struggled to collect the right words for her thoughts. “My problem isn’t that I was a part of it. Or, it isn’t just that. We shouldn’t be doing that sort of work in the first place.”

Eyes glittering with frustration, Elix marched over to a cabinet, opening a drawer, rifling through the papers inside. Every motion carried with it a manic edge, one so fine it could cut like a blade. “Here.” She slammed the papers down before Karusar, their contents utterly illegible. “This is the form for expressing doubt on a potential job offer for the company. You raise your objections, gather people who agree, and maybe the owners of Nakku’s Nails don’t take the damn job.”

“You have to file that before the job starts, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Back when the company first starts negotiating with the client.”

“Exactly.”

“When was this current assignment being negotiated?”

Elix threw up her hands. “Seven years ago, Sar!”

Karusar stood up with a violence that sent her chair backwards. “I wasn’t even on my first tour then! What fucking good with this have done?” She lifted the pages, regarding them with obvious disdain.

“I’m trying to make sure this never happens again!” Elix shot back. “You chull-brained simpleton, I want to protect you!”

“I don’t need protection!” Karusar was clenching her fists so hard they hurt, and her heart was hammering with a weight that made it a rolling drum in her ears, deafening good sense. “You know what’s an easier solution? I just fucking leave. Storm kicking people out of their homes, storm Nakku’s Nails, and storm any chance of giving that shaved cunt an apology! I’m better than that.”

Yellow triangles shattered around Elix’s head. In the space of a breath, anger evaporated, in both of them. Around Karusar, red and white petals fell, and she hated to see the shamespren.

“You’re sure?” was all Elix asked her. Voice sober.

She wasn’t. “I am.” Putting her hands on the back of the chair, Karusar bent over, and admitted a frustrating truth. “I’m tired, Elix. It feels like, the longer I do this, the more people I lose.” Her eyes flicked to Elix herself, and she could see the older woman understood. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before she lost her too. “I’m not... I can’t imagine quitting forever.” She truly couldn’t. “It’s just a break."

Elix breathed in, long and slow, through her nose, and out her mouth. “Fine. Early end of tour. Considering the circumstances, your moral objections, friendliness with the lakers, and youth, I’ll see if I can get the fine reduced. You won’t walk away with much more than you have right now, but you won’t go into debt.”

“Appreciated.”

“You’re a fool, Karusar.” Elix shook her head. “But, I suppose I already knew that.” They shared a brief smile, remembering the spirited twelve year old Karusar had once been. “When Beynith gets back, what do I tell her?”

She tried not to picture Beynith returning to Nakku’s Nails, and finding Karusar wasn’t there to greet her. “Whatever you want. I’ll write to her, explain what happened.”

Elix snorted. “She can’t read your... what did she always call it?”

“‘Vorin cremling-scratch’. I’ll find a scribe with a good grasp of Azish.”

They shook hands, grips firm, and suddenly her decision was real. Final. “I’ll get started on your motion to be dismissed from the company,” Elix told her. “It’ll take a few days to go through, so keep to your bunk, and for your own sake, stay away from Siyawn. If you two get into a fistfight, it’ll make things harder for both of us.”

“I’ll do my best.” Karusar almost turned around and left, then and there. Instead, she met Elix’s gaze one last time, and tried to ignore how thick her own voice sounded coming out of her throat. “Thank you. For everything.”

Elix shook her head. “Don’t thank me. Just go.”

After two days of being treated as the company pariah, it was shockingly easy to leave.

Carrying her lunui case on one shoulder, a bag holding all her worldly possessions on the other, Karusar found herself in the middle of Yulay, with no clue what she was going to do next.

Her eyes turned to the north, where the Purelake stretched to the horizon. I could go back, help the people my company is displacing. It felt like the right thing to do.

But doubt crept in, all too easily. They’re probably not feeling too welcoming right now. Especially towards former mercs. More than that, Karusar was just one woman. She couldn’t defend the lakers all on her own, and even if she could...

Storms, I’m so tired. The longsword at her hip felt as though it weighed as much as a greatshell. Karusar looked down at herself, at the leather armor she wore, at her calloused hands, and knew it was time.

The girl set aside the name of Karusar, and felt her burdens lighten.

It’s not forever, she told herself, told Karusar. Just as Danahui can still have a night out every now and then, Karusar can always return, when she’s needed. That felt good. A relief that spread easily through the young woman’s body.

Reaching behind her, the girl pulled her red hair, now long enough to reach her shoulder blades, out of the tail she’d been constraining it in. Shaking her head around, she let it flow, let it run wild, and took a moment to simply stand there, feeling the breeze on her face, the sunlight on her skin. So much had changed, in the years since she’d last been nameless. Become taller and stronger and hardier. Deadlier.

It had been nice, being Karusar. But four years of it, four years of training and fighting and killing, had been too much.

What do I do now?

She stood in the center of Roshar, any path she wanted to take was open. To the west? To see Beynith? The girl shook her head. Beynith is Karusar’s, not a nameless girl’s. She wouldn’t know what to do with me. The thought made her smile, the expression easy, effortless, in a way it had never been for Karusar. I don’t even know what to do with me. Not yet.

Looking east, she considered Tu Bayla. The first girl she’d ever kissed had grown up there, or so she’d told Karusar. She could have been lying. She lied a lot. But past that, past the realm of nomads, was Jah Keved. Home. The girl felt her heart beat faster.

Do I dare?

Maybe.

Forget directions, what do I do? She’d been a musician. She’d been a mercenary. What else was there?

She thought, suddenly, of the days spent serving food in the company mess hall, of evenings busy cleaning up after the others, of the mornings spent assisting with whatever task needed doing.

There had been something to that. Something that called to her.

A freedom to do as directed, to work with a smile, to be at the service of others.

I can do that. She smiled. I want to do that. She thought of herself dressed in black, like the sorts of Veden hired help she’d grown up around, and found herself happy with the idea. There was a symmetry to it.

It was decided. She’d find the nearest lord or business or family hiring for a servant, and she’d take the job. She’d work. Not for herself, but for others.

Those thoughts reminded her starkly of a man with a well-trimmed red beard, and the kindest eyes the girl had ever seen. I took ‘Karusar’ from Mother, pared it with love from her full Unkalaki name. It had ended up fitting beautifully. Karusar was so like Mother, so stern and sharp and prickly.

The girl would be different. She would emulate another, and with that, carry his name. With deft fingers, she carried the spirit of Father’s woodcutting in abstract, lopped off a syllable, smoothing a vowel, and found herself happy with the result.

Nesh wiped the tears from her face, and set out building her new life.

Chapter Text

-23-

Gloriously Radiant

“i think azzy marionette is mad at me. for saying the wrong things to the wrong people. for getting arrested. for digging stuff up that people wanted to stay buried. i don't mean to cause trouble. i just want to help. i helped her. but... maybe... maybe she's mad about that too”

—Scalpel’s Research Log, Pronouns of the day: any, written forty-two days after arriving, local date Betabashan 1173

The room around Renarin was covered in stained glass.

He felt stuck to the spot, barely able to move, breath difficult to properly take in, as his eyes behind his spectacles swiveled around, trying to take in every detail of what was around him.

This was wrong. To see the future, it was not just a taboo, it was heresy.

My fault, Glys whispered from inside of Renarin. But, good? Your Father...

Indeed, once again, Renarin’s father appeared in one work of art. Lying down in a bed, a thin layer of dark scruff growing over his face represented by a black panel of glass on the bottom half of his head, looking up at the Parshendi warrior, clad in carapace armor, standing above his bedside.

As was so often the case, there was something written under it, as though the stained glass were a featured piece in a woman’s portfolio, but Renarin still couldn’t read it. I should learn, he told himself for the hundredth time, even as the very thought of undertaking such a task sent a bolt of shame through his heart. Renarin was already a disappointment in a dozen different ways, did he need to add literacy to that?

More to the point, what did this display mean? Was Father being treated well by his captors? Were they interrogating him?

There were other images to gaze upon, of course. Glimpses of what was to come.

One depicted a figure in Shardplate, horse rearing up behind him, lying slumped on the ground. His helmet was shattered, and a pool of blood was forming around his head. Something about the figure was familiar, but Renarin had difficulty telling exactly who it was. At least this one had glyphs beneath it, ones he could read. Nine days. Whoever that was, their death was foretold, unavoidable.

A third stained glass wall, having grown over the top of the place where the door to the balcony was supposed to be, was an image of a Parshendi warrior, standing tall on a hill, not a plateau, facing an approaching stormwall. A face filled the storm, as large as the sky, and it regarded... the Stormfather regarded the person with skin marbled black and red, with an expression that was difficult to properly understand. Was that contempt? Interest? Fear?

It wasn’t as though these were three separate tableau’s, individual pieces that stood on their own. The entire room was a tapestry, a panorama that blended from one to another, their colors intensely bright.

Those three were the only ones Renarin managed to truly capture in his mind, however, through the overwhelming attack of sensory information, through the assault against his eyes, before...

“Renarin?”

As the word cut through the visual noise, Renarin blinked, and the stained glass around him shattered, returning the world around him to what it had once been, what it always was.

He was still in Elhokar’s chambers, sitting on plush upholstery, waiting with his cousin for the others to arrive. The king stood above Renarin, looking down wearing that simple crown, the ostentatious cape, and his regal embroidered outfit. There was something like concern, and something like pity, in his eyes.

“I’m okay,” Renarin said, voice quiet.

A short but rather intense silence followed, and in it, Elhokar’s eyes darted around the room, as though searching for any sneaking eavesdroppers. He walked to the door, waited (listening?), nodded, and walked back to Renarin.

Then, he sat down, and let out a breath.

It was strange, watching a king relax. Renarin certainly couldn’t remember his uncle ever doing it, and perhaps in emulation of that endless regal grace, Elhokar so rarely indulged.

“I know it’s exhausting,” Elhokar told Renarin, conspiratorial, a small smile gracing his features. “The burden that’s fallen to you.”

It was like looking at a different man. Gone was the paranoid, often infuriating king that Renarin did his best to protect and serve alongside his father and brother. In his place was the cousin that Renarin had once trailed after, had grown up alongside, had once known better than he’d known Father.

Does he mean...? It took Renarin a moment to grapple with the topic, and even once he had, a proper reply escaped him. All that came to his mouth was, “You do?”

Everyone changed. Renarin knew that. Had seen it. Easy, when he was the quiet boy at the edge of rooms, one few beside Adolin thought to talk to.

He had seen the way Father had been born again after the death of King Gavilar, a return of the honorable general Mother had once told stories of. He had seen the way Jasnah pulled into her own shell, like a chull fearing the coming storm. He had seen the way Elhokar bent and broke himself into a facsimile of his predecessor on the throne.

Elhokar almost looked insulted. “Do I know what it’s like, finding myself in a position of immense power and feeling utterly unprepared for it?”

It was strange, with how much time Renarin spent around Elhokar, how much he was now realizing he had missed his cousin. Missed this version of him.

“Oh.” Renarin pondered that. “But you were the heir.”

In the wake of his vision, his blasphemy, this conversation was suddenly soothing, in a way Renarin didn’t expect. He was used to being assaulted with sensory overstimulation in the aftermath, but all he could think about now was Elhokar, in past and in present.

The king, no, Renarin’s cousin, drew a few falling petals of shamespren. “For a time, it felt as though... as though my father was immortal. That I’d forever be Crown Prince, and never truly take on the mantle. It was galling, frustrating, but... what was I to do? You remember him, Renarin. As implaccable as a highstorm, as—”

Then the door opened, and Renarin’s cousin was once again subsumed by his role. He continued to sit, but his posture stiffened, and his gaze turned to see who entered with pleasant but measured enthusiasm.

Why is it, Renarin wondered, that he’s only ever so kind when we’re alone?

After a quick look at Mashala, Kalami, and Kaladin as they stepped into the king’s private chambers, Renarin felt the world tighten around him and did the only sensible thing. He pulled out his box, and made sure his focus was on it, to ground himself. Too many people. He would listen, and give input where he needed to, but... for the moment, Renarin had hit his limit.

“Where do we begin?” Elhokar. Tired, trying to hide it.

Silence. “Another highprince is preparing to abandon the Vengeance Pact.” Kalami. Bitter.

“Only one?” Mashala. Amused? “I’m aware of at least three willing to join Roion in cowardice.”

“Who?”

“Ruthar, Hatham, and Bethab.”

“Not Sebariel?”

A click of the tongue. Renarin winced at the unsavory sound, but kept his eyes on his box, flicking a switch back and forth. “No. In fact, he’s broached the topic of buying what the others are leaving behind, the same as Sadeas did with Roion.”

“They can just leave?” Kaladin. Confused? Frustrated? Renarin wasn’t sure. “You’re the king. If you don’t want them to leave, tell them they can’t.”

“It’s not that simple,” Renarin muttered.

“It’s not that simple.” Mashala. Compassionate, but pitying. Could Kaladin hear that in her voice? “While my son holds the fealty of the highprinces in name, it is tradition and convenience that keeps them in line.”

Elhokar stood up. Stomped around. Said nothing.

Kalami took up the task instead. “With the betrayal from Highprince Sadeas...” She swallowed her hatred. “...our forces are dramatically reduced. We’ve done what we can to ameliorate this disadvantage, but unless you’re going to take your gifts from the Void and turn them towards the battlefield—”

“I won’t.”

“—then we are in a tenuous position, Brightness Kaladin. One that we cannot disturb by attempting to overtly command the other highprinces.”

“Hey!” Sylphrena. Offended? “Kaladin’s gifts are not from the Void! They’re from the bond between us! And I am of Honor. Y’know, your Almighty? Sooooo maybe you should treat us both with a liiiiiiittle more respect, Brightness Thinlips.”

Inside Renarin’s chest, Glys said nothing, but warmed briefly, a flash of interest. He was scared at the idea of revealing himself to anyone, let alone being as open with his presence as Sylphrena was with this trusted group. But the idea also appealed to him. Contradictory desires.

Renarin could relate.

“...”

No one responded to Sylphrena.

“What else?” Elhokar. The topic was abandoned.

“Assassinations, traveling East. Not necessarily towards us, but...” Kalami.

“The Assassin in White?”

“No.”

“The Weeper?”

“Someone new. The targets started as low-to-mid-dahn lighteyes, but whoever this is, they’ve begun to escalate. Several battlefield commanders in Jah Keved, citylords for prosperous communities, even relatives of the highprinces. The method of murder is also... irregular.”

“In what way?”

“The victims all died from unexplained trauma, seemingly caused by a small, circular projectile that passed through the body. Most often, the head or the neck. There’s never any trace of what caused the puncture, and witnesses report a harsh thunderclap of a sound in the vicinity.”

Renarin thought of the stained glass, displaying a figure in Shardplate, dead on the stone.

“Could this be another Surgebinder?”

“Syl?”

“Hmm... maybe? But, it doesn’t sound right...”

“If there were witnesses, someone must have seen this assassin.”

“They did, Your Majesty, but only from afar. Whatever is being done, there’s no need for the assailant to be close to the target. What few descriptions we have only corroborate that this person wears a black robe that covers much of his body, and that his eyes appear to be... made of metal.”

“Protective eyewear, perhaps?” Mashala. Intrigued. “Could this be some sort of previously unknown fabrial? One capable of being used as a projectile weapon?”

“Perhaps, Brightness. If so, this Assassin in Black, as some have taken to calling him, may herald a new revelation in warfare.”

“We will speak to the Cobalt Guard, work on a plan to defend against this man, should the need arise. Until then, what else?”

“Renarin has something to say.”

Kaladin’s voice made Renarin blink. Oh. That’s right. They’d planned on bringing up the topic during this meeting, but...

As Renarin looked up, he saw the eyes of all in the room upon him. Swallowing, he set the cube down, and stated his case. “Kaladin refuses to be used as a weapon in our war. However, there is something else she can do. That... that we can do.” He took a breath. “I would like to lead her in rescuing Father from the Parshendi.”

He had expected a chorus of voices to raise in protest, he had braced himself for it.

Instead, all he received were pitying looks.

“Highprince Renarin,” Kalami began.

“No.” Renarin stood. “Father is alive. I know it. We will retrieve him.” Was his voice shaking? Or had he hidden such weakness?

Kaladin crossed the room, putting a hand on Renarin’s shoulder, and giving the others a glare that she seemed to hope would quail them all into supporting this plan. Sylphrena, it appeared, also wished to help, but her display on Kaladin’s shoulder, arms crossed and pout in place, seemed less effective. “I can fly us out. Cut stormshelters into the plateau, if necessary.”

“Even assuming that Uncle is alive, will you fight the Parshendi, should they try to stop you?” Elhokar’s doubts were still obvious.

Rather than answer with words alone, Kaladin summoned Syl into a Shardshield. “I’ll do what I need to, and nothing more.”

Which wasn’t, as far as Renarin could tell, an answer.

“I think it’s worth a try,” Mashala began, but Renarin could already feel the caveat that was coming. “However, I’m not sure if Renarin should accompany you, Surgebinder. He has a blood weakness, problems with his eyesight, and...”

With a sudden pulse of warmth in his chest from Glys, Renarin drew in a sharp breath, and suddenly...

A storm, inside his veins. Eager. Excited. Ready to be used. Used how? What can I do?

A glow, rising from his skin. Unmistakable. Irrepressible. A beacon. I can’t hide anymore. Good.

A smile, curling his lips. Confident. Brash. An echo of his brother. This isn’t a burden. I want this.

Glorypsren circled him, and Renarin knew, if only for a moment, that he was Radiant.

“I’ll join the Windrunner,” Renarin told them, a whisper that all heard clearly. “And you will watch as we show you the truth. Father is not dead. I am not Highprince. We are not staying here.”

This time, people listened.

Chapter Text

-24-

Ten Curses

“Need to start telling clients to spread the right rusting name around. ‘Assassin in Black’? I’m not some copycat! I’m vengeance incarnate. The end these noble bastards have made for themselves. I. Am. Death.”

—Ironsights’ personal log, entry written sixty-four days after arrival on Roshar

They were nearing the Shattered Plains.

It had been a week since they’d last seen the ocean, even from afar. Instead, they were surrounded by endless rolling hills, a lingering chill, and the occasional protected nook flush with life.

Lirin seemed to find it dull, and had turned his focus on discussions with a fellow curious mind, hearing at length of Naln’s studies. This caused more than a few spats between them, but by this point, Hesina was quite certain the two were friends.

And for Hesina?

It’s beautiful.

Her decades in Hearthstone had been well spent, but it felt good to travel again, to see parts of the world once unknown to her.

The landscape wasn’t monotonous, no matter what her husband said. Each hill brought something unique, in shape or feature or size, and Hesina could watch them all day without growing tired of it. Which, to be fair, she just had, and the way the sun, now hanging low in the sky, cast long shadows with those mounds of rock only added to the majesty.

Days of peace, surrounded by people she trusted, that she cared for, were something to cherish, and no one could convince Hesina otherwise. After all, for a time, they had been in such short supply.

Meanwhile, the hulking mercenary sitting beside her was getting agitated.

“This makes no sense,” Karusar grumbled, armored arms crossed, sitting in the back corner of their wagon. “It fits that we haven’t seen any trace of whoever is after you two,” she nodded her head to Hesina and Lirin, “since they’re probably lying in wait in the warcamps. But this area is supposed to be lousy with bandits. By the Prime Kadasix, we have horses! They should be all over us.”

Hesina let out an amused sound, then passed her son over to Karusar, enjoying the sight of the woman’s stern face suddenly softening as she held the child. Indecision and fear clouded those bright yellow eyes of hers, and her gloved hands fumbled with Oroden, as though afraid she’d break him by twitching the wrong finger. “Are you upset at the lack of danger?” she asked.

“Course she is!” Mishim called out. Xe had pulled out some sort of stick to amuse xemself, flipping it between xyr fingers with practiced ease. “Only thing Sar hates more than not having anyone to punch is having to wait days and days and days for the punching!”

Karusar settled the child on her knee so she could make a rude gesture at her friend, then focused her full attention on Oroden once more, relaxing her expression into something that still looked unhappy, but was less overtly grumpy. “Fuck you, Mishim. You don’t know me.”

“Yes I do!” Mishim replied in a singsong voice. “And for the first thing, you know my rates, gemheart.” This was delivered with a coy wink. The cheery, silly sex worker had risen as Nomon set a few days before, lightening the mood on the last leg of their journey.

As xe fluttered xyr eyelashes at Karusar, seeming to savor the mix of annoyance and embarrassment it elicited in her, Hesina did have to admit, if only to herself, that she could see the appeal. Mishim was so small, just soft enough to avoid being spindly, xyr round face and head full of brown curls giving xem a charming bouncy quality. Cute, in other words.

Suddenly, a flash of memory from when she’d first met Mishim came to Hesina and a question rushed to her lips. “I just realized, you never told us about Art of Devotion.” In the flurry of excitement that had followed their escape from Kholinar, Hesina had lost track of that particular thread.

“Well, I don’t know it too well, but I’m such Sar could spin the tale, since it’s her favorite and all,” Mishim teased.

Karusar kept bouncing Oroden on her knee, not even giving her friend the courtesy of eye contact. “No.”

Turning to the front of the cart, Hesina called, “What about you, Naln? You knew something about the story, didn’t you?” As Hesina asked, she leaned to one side, resting some of her weight against the solid bulk that was Karusar’s side. Just how much of this woman is muscle? Hesina found herself wondering, intrigued.

Idly, she reached out with her gloved safehand, feeling through the leather and chain of Karusar’s armor to gauge the bicep underneath.

Ever since their evening together after the highstorm, Karusar hadn’t been so distant from Hesina, which made it fantastically easy to tease her. They hadn’t done much more than that, and it was always so rewarding to see those copper cheeks darken, just a little, as blood rushed to her face, to see her scowl tremble as though she was straining herself to keep it up.

“Don’t torture the poor woman,” Lirin asked, glancing back at what Hesina was up to.

Moving up the arm to Karusar’s shoulder, then her back, Hesina didn’t stop. I wonder if I can get her to make any interesting sounds again? “If she asks me to stop, I will.” Thin lips pulling into a cheeky smile, Hesina leaned in. “Did you want me to stop, Karusar?”

“You can just call me Sar,” she whispered, settling Oroden between her crossed legs and avoiding Hesina’s gaze.

Which, as far as she was concerned, was answer in and of itself, wasn’t it?

Naln cleared his throat. “The Art of Devotion is a formal retelling of a folk story, one with more permutations and variations across eastern Roshar than you can imagine. The story’s protagonist is a darkeyed girl named Nara, age variable, who through happenstance comes to know and serve a lighteyed lady by the name of Vedelis. Over the course of the tale, Nara undergoes ten trials on Vedelis’s behalf, she needs to get married to a prominent brightlord you see, and in accomplishing these incredibly arduous tasks, she earns Vedelis the betrothal, and...”

There was a small pause, before Naln finished, “Well, that’s it. That’s the end of the story.”

“...” If someone had dropped a pebble onto the wooden floor of the wagon, it would have been clearly audible, such was the silence that followed this explanation.

“The tenfold repetition in tasks, which in oral retelling differs greatly in detail depending on the performer; the pining for a romantic figure who plays no strong role in the story and exists more as a goal to be won; the reinforcing of the Vorin caste system by celebrating the determined subservience of Nara to her social better while keeping them socially isolated from one another; I’m not expert in folklore, but all of these traits all coalesce into a fairly typical tale of its type.” Naln was still facing forward, completely unaware of the reaction to his words.

Mishim kept looking from Naln to Karusar and back again, eyes wide, xyr lips waffling between a grin and an open mouthed grimace. Hesina was holding back her laughter, and the cause for said amusement...

Well, Karusar was looking at her friend as though he had just stabbed her beloved pet axehound before her very eyes. Betrayal and disappointment practically dripped from her every feature, and for a moment, Hesina was truly worried that the woman was going to draw agonyspren to her from the emotional pain.

But then she saw the joviality at the edges of her lips, the sense of pantomime to her broadcast pain. Whatever her real feelings about Naln’s abysmal performance, Karusar was exaggerating immensely for the humor it would bring to the others.

She’s truly gotten relaxed around us, Hesina thought, and found herself pleasantly warmed by such a realization, as though a sunbeam have fallen on her very soul. I’ll need to burn a glyphward later in thanks for this.

“Naln,” Karusar intoned, voice low.

“Yes?” Naln replied, eyes on the path ahead of them all. Could he really be so unaware?

Karusar handed Oroden back to Hesina, walked up to the front of the cart, and gripped Naln’s shoulder tightly with her gloved safehand. “Naln.”

“...all of the details I shared were factual.”

“They were,” Karusar confirmed. “You also told the story so storming poorly that I wish you’d never even tried. You mangled The Art of Devotion with such savagery that Nesh would faint if she was fronting. Worst of all, you fucked up our favorite campfire tale so hard that Danahui is currently annoying the shit out of me, trying to get me to throw you out of the cart.” She paused for effect. “While it’s still moving.”

“You can’t do that!” Mishim called out, aghast. “I’ll starve if I lose Naln! He’s my favorite repeat customer!” Then xe giggled, dropping any pretense of actual worry on the situation. “Ooh! I have a real story I can share!”

Karusar gave xem a sidelong glance, skepticism obvious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! And it’s one you’ll hate even more!” Drumming xyr hands on xyr thighs, Mishim tried to build up some excitement before announcing, “I’ll tell them about Kattar!” Xe followed this pronouncement up with a rolling, high-pitched cackle.

Thick gloved hands moving to cover her face, Karusar groaned through her fingers.

That earned Lirin’s curiosity. “Who is ‘Kattar’?”

After moving back to her spot beside Hesina and reaching out to take Oroden, Karusar tried to explain. “My—”

“The time, some fifteen years hence!” Mishim proclaimed, standing and throwing out xyr splayed out left hand, dainty fingers uncovered by any sort of glove. “The place, distant Azir! The main character, our dear, sweet Karusar, then only ten years old! Imagine it!” Xe paused, evidently waiting for them all to do just that.

Hesina tried her best, but found it difficult to cobble together a coherent image. Would the redhead have been hit with her immense height, even at that young an age? Had she been bulky, or gangly, or stout?

The subject of this tale was trying to clean some spit off of Oroden’s face with her glove, but the boy was resisting. “Jezerezah’s spleen, it was twelve years ago, I was thirteen, and it was Marabethia, not Azir.”

“There she strolled, through a marketplace,” Mishim continued, completely ignoring Karusar’s objections, “unaware that she was about to have quite a few firsts. A first love! A first kiss! A first betrayal!”

“That was the day I met Kattar, the first person I ever dated.” Karusar took over the storytelling, her hands gripping Hesina’s son gently in her lap. “She was a year or two older than me. We were together for a few months, and I fell for her. Told her too much.” She let out a weary sigh. ”Turns out, she was conning me. Sold the details I’d let slip about what Nakku’s Nails was up to, which nearly got me kicked from the company. Before I could even confront her, she had run.” Long, gray tattered cloth appeared around Karusar, blowing in an unseen wind.

Gloomspren, a spren so rare Hesina could count the number of times she’d seen them on one hand. Which, with the son... with the daughter she had raised, certainly said something.

Before, the conversation had rankled Karusar in a way that was at least half a joke, something she was clearly playing up to amuse them. But this story had hit something real, an old hurt that lingered even a decade later.

Never before had Karusar, this blunt brute of a woman, rippling with muscles and near-constantly clad in armor, seemed so fragile to Hesina. Like she could reach out and shatter Karusar with the wrong word, the wrong touch. She’d seen the same look in her own husband, far too many times, and it always brought out a protective tightness in her chest.

The others noticed the way Karusar was feeling too. Mishim had stopped xyr foolishness, looking at her with worried brown eyes, and even Lirin was turning a sympathetic gaze towards her.

Reaching out, slowly, carefully, Hesina put a hand on Karusar’s cheek. “You deserved better. I’m sorry she did that to you.”

“It was my own fault.” Karusar didn’t shrug off the contact, and as the gloomspren faded, a bitter smile crossed her face. “I should have been more careful. I was an easy mark, and Kattar was just... doing what she does.” She spoke of Kattar with a nostalgic fondness, in spite of the scars she had left.

Don’t do that. Don’t tell yourself it was your fault. Just because she hurt you, that doesn’t mean you earned it. Before Hesina could put her thoughts into words, Karusar saw something on the horizon, eyes narrowing, face settling into guarded fierceness, and she passed Oroden back to Hesina.

She stood up, and one by one the others did the same. Naln pulled the horses to a stop.

In the distance, rising up into the late afternoon sky, was smoke.

The smoke from hundreds of campfires.

“It’s an army,” Hesina breathed.

Karusar grunted. “The question is, which one?”

Karusar led the horses in the approach towards the army.

“No one say a fucking word,” she warned, for the third time, never taking her eyes off the procession of soldiers forming up their camps for the evening.

Despite all her years as a mercenary, both before and after Nakku’s Nails, Karusar hadn’t seen a full army on the move more than a handful of times, and never this close. Even still, the scent on the wind was unmistakable.

Perhaps a civilian would guess, if asked, that an army smelled like metal or boiled leather or even horses. A cute idea, but wrong. No, the prevailing stink of an army on the move was that of the sweat of the thousands of people that comprised it, with an edge of even less pleasant bodily functions making themselves know if one took too big of a breath through their nose.

The army was taking up the entirety of the roadway, clogging it so badly that there was already a caravan set up to camp for the night, evidently ready to wait out the throng for a chance to continue their journey. Their banners flew a blood red and a light blue, and Nesh had to be the one to tell Karusar, in whispering strums, that meant the army was Ruthar’s.

Do we take the chance of staying far enough away to escape their notice? Risk bandits finally making good on my fears? Or do we hope the army won’t take notice of us if we camp for the night closer to their march? Karusar pondered the matter as they slowly approached, and Ana helpfully shared her own thoughts, her own plans, in that strange undulating rhythm only she could produce.

“What’s the problem?” Lirin asked. “We have our travel papers in our trunk, there’s no...” Without looking back, Karusar had to guess he had turned his attention towards Naln and Mishim.

Karusar could imagine the shit-eating grin on Mishim’s face and the nonchalance on Naln’s. “He’s eighth nahn, and I’m...” Xe had to think about it for a few seconds before guessing. “...ninth?”

“No right of travel then.” The surgeon sighed. “Were you allocated to Kholinar?”

“I don’t believe in ‘allocation’ or ‘laws’,” Mishim said breezily. “Not entirely sold on ‘Kholinar’ either.”

“They can return me to my family’s farm as ashes or not at all,” Naln agreed. “Preferably, the latter. They didn’t want me in life, they don’t deserve me in death.” He was dead serious about that, and Karusar knew it.

It sounded like Lirin was about to start saying something, maybe about how unsafe such a way of living was, so Karusar cut this entire topic off before it got any further. “It’s not about travel papers. We need to get you into the warcamp without drawing too much attention, and if the wrong people see you now, word might get there ahead of us.” She grunted in annoyance. “And considering our motley group, if we get stopped, we’re going to draw attention.”

There were official documents in Karusar’s trunk stating some passable excuse for their presence, that Jasnah Kholin had summoned them to the Shattered Plains and that Karusar was hired to escort them.

As if that would be any less suspicious. No, if they reached a point that those papers had to come out, then they’d need to expect an ambush the second they got to the warcamps. I could handle that, maybe, but not without losing someone. The idea made the meager lunch in Karusar’s stomach sour.

Before too long, they were pulling up alongside the caravan, and the sun had nearly finished cresting the horizon.

Karusar’s heart was finally starting to calm down, it was finally looking as though they’d escaped notice, and then a cohort from the army started moving directly towards them.

“Halt,” the officer among them stated, despite the fact that Karusar had stopped the horses minutes before he was within earshot. Stepping closer to examine the stormwagon, and those riding within, the man was flanked by soldiers, suspicion gleaming in his light green eyes. “Traveling to the Shattered Plains?” His torch revealed more details of his uniform as he drew close, proving him to be a captain.

As bad as the situation seemed, at least none of Karusar’s charges or friends were trying to answer the question. “Yes, and—”

“They’re with us,” called out a voice to one side, and Karusar was shocked to look and see figures from the caravan approaching, one of them holding up a hand and waving it to get the soldier’s attention. “We were wondering what was taking you all so long.”

It was getting dark enough that, without a source of light, it was hard to get a good look at whoever this was offering them a lifeline, but considering the circumstances, Karusar wasn’t in a position to turn away the help. Instead, she let out an annoyed huff and said, “Not my fault. The craftsman and his wife wanted to stop for lunch, took longer than we were expecting.”

“They’re members of the caravan?” the officer asked, turning his focus, and his firelight, onto the approaching figure.

Standing there was a woman, shorter than Hesina by a finger or two, wearing trousers and a long coat made of the same sort of leather that Karusar was preferential to, when she didn’t need to be in armor. There was a sword belted to her waist, a perfect compliment to her wiry build and sharp cheekbones. Her hair, a ‘pure’ Alethi black, was pulled into a simple braid that barely made it past her shoulders, and added to her aura of competent professionalism.

None of that is what truly struck Karusar, what knocked the air out of her lungs, what made her wonder if she’d done something to piss off any of those gods she didn’t truly believe existed.

The woman’s eyes were a light tan, and had a notably piercing quality to them, as though she could see right through a person. And her lips... there was a tilt to them, something just on the edge of mockery, as though she was thoroughly unimpressed with whoever she turned it towards.

In a sound of bow on strings that only Karusar could hear, Danahui played an excited, surprised tune. Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing, Karusar thought to her. She just wasn’t nearly as enthused with the revelation as her sister.

“I can show you the paperwork to prove it, if you give me half an hour to dig through our records,” the woman promised, the lie coming oh so easily to her lips. Some things never storming change, do they?

“That won’t be necessary,” the captain replied. “In the future, please make such unexpected additions to your group clear when speaking to an authority.” Then, with the size of his proverbial dick made clear, he and his men turned back to their army and marched off.

Karusar only noticed this from the corner of her eye.

There was no way she was taking her eyes off that woman, that skyeel, again. Not after last time.

Before Karusar could think of something to say, the woman was already walking towards the caravan’s camp and waving for them to follow. “We’ll talk once you’re settled, Karu,” she promised.

So, she recognized me too. But if that was the case, why the assist? Putting me in her debt?

While Karusar got the horses moving again, she quietly let out a string of ten curses under her breath, making sure to properly profane at least one holy figure from every religion she knew.

“Sar?” Hesina asked, and Karusar hated that hesitation in her voice. You don’t need to be scared of me. Please, don’t be scared of me. “Why did we just play along with that woman’s lie?”

“Because otherwise, we might have been fucked in every conceivable orifice,” Karusar admitted.

And because now that I know she’s here, I’d rather be close enough to keep an eye on her.

Getting set up near the caravan wasn’t hard. Storms, the tradesmaster leading them was all too willing to sell Karusar’s group the few provisions they were getting low on, and at a price that was only painful, instead of devastating. “Any friend of Tyn’s is welcome,” he told Karusar after the spheres had been handed over. “Best guard captain I’ve ever had.”

So, that’s what she’s going by nowadays. Karusar couldn’t really judge anyone for changing from name to name, but knowing Tyn, it was all too likely a move of survival, of escaping the noose she’d put around her own damned neck.

Only once she’d made sure her friends were properly settled was she ready to finally speak to Tyn in private.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lirin had asked, looking down at the pool of angerspren that had been following Karusar, off and on, since she’d first seen Tyn again.

“It’s the only path forward.”

When she entered Tyn’s tent, Karusar found her putting away a spanreed. “Karu! There you are!” With a tittering laugh, Tyn strode forward, hands on her hips as she surveyed Karusar. “Of all the long odds, I never expected to run into you again. How long has it been?”

“Twelve years.”

Tyn blanched at her tone. “Oh, come on now, you can’t still be mad.”

“You don’t get to decide that, not after what you did.” It was tempting to put a hand on the hilt of her sword, but... no. She was angry. She was hurt. But that didn’t give her the right to escalate this to violence.

To her frustration, such a thought was made all the easier by how storming gorgeous Tyn was. She’d gone from a reasonably pretty girl to a woman who was liable to steal unattended hearts.

“What brings you to these parts?”

“Guard work,” Karusar told her gruffly. “Contracted out. Escorting them to the Plains.”

Pulling out two chairs, Tyn offered one to Karusar just as she was sitting in her own. Karusar braced herself for more questions, but was shocked to instead hear answers of her own from Tyn. “I’ve been doing more contract work lately. Good gigs, if you can string them along, one to another. Are you able to tell me who’s pulling your strings?” Reaching out to a table, she started pouring a dark liquid from a thick bottle into a pair of cups.

“None for me,” Karusar insisted. “And no. Can you?”

“Of course not.” Without batting an eyelash at Karusar’s refusal of hospitality, Tyn downed one cup and started sipping the second.

What if she’s working with whoever’s hunting Hesina and Lirin? That didn’t seem like the sort of work Tyn would take, but... then again, more than a decade had passed since they last saw each other. Maybe Tyn had moved up in the world, gone from fleecing to slaying. Karusar had to consider the possibility.

The plan was easy to form. Too close-quarters to use the sword. Knife to the throat, finish it, then warn the others before her guards could respond. It was violent, it was dangerous, and it would leave a lasting scar on Karusar herself, even if she pulled it off flawlessly. I’ll do it. If I have to.

“I’ve heard things about you, and about your sisters. Thought you were an only child, but then again, you never told me much about your family.” Something about how she said the word ‘sisters’, about the storming smirk that came with it, made Karusar think she knew more than she was saying. “I’m glad to see you again, Karu.”

“Why? I’m not stupid enough to let you con me a second time.”

That got a pout from her. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Are you ever going to apologize for it?” Karusar spat back.

Tyn shrugged. “Sure. I’m sorry. That better?” Her smile widened by degrees. “Would a kiss help?”

It was despicable, the way Karusar’s body betrayed her. She could feel the warmth in her face, the sudden skittering in her chest, and she hated it. “I’d rather kiss a chasmfiend.” Karusar rose from her seat hard enough to send it to the floor, and stormed out of the tent before Tyn could say another word.

To her credit, Tyn didn’t try to stop her, didn’t call after her. Patient. That was always her strength.

By the time Karusar got back to where the others had set up for the night, most of them were asleep.

All of them, except for Hesina.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” she asked, eyes too understanding for Karusar’s taste. “Kattar. Your first.”

“She’s going by ‘Tyn’ now, but yeah.” Karusar sat beside Hesina, their backs to the wall of the stormwagon. “Of all the coincidences...”

Hesina leaned lightly against her, safehand finding Karusar’s fingers to intertwine and hold tight. “Perhaps it isn’t. Maybe it’s a sign from the Almighty.” When Karusar snorted, Hesina used her freehand to poke her in the shoulder. “What was that, young lady?” she asked, her tone teasing.

“Nothing,” Karusar replied, savoring as her body started to relax. She’d been flushed with tension most of the day, made only worse by the sudden and unwanted reunion. “Can I ask for something?”

“You can always ask.” She squeezed Karusar’s freehand.

Karusar took a deep breath. “Can we... sleep together? Tonight?” Then, before Hesina could even think of responding, she kept going, speaking faster. “Not sex. I mean, if the mood strikes us, and your husband wouldn’t mind, but... that isn’t what I’m asking for.”

“You’re actually going to sleep tonight?” Hesina was surprised, which was fair. Karusar normally slept the bare minimum to stay alert, more in the morning than while the sun was down. After all, they were being hunted, and someone competent needed to be on-guard.

“I have to. As much as I hate to leave ourselves open to some chullshit trickery from Tyn, Nesh is going to be taking over soon. When we reach the warcamps, if not a day or two before. We keep different hours, and... as nice as she is, I’d rather her not be upset with me for keeping the body’s sleep rhythm set so far against her wishes.” Just saying it aloud got Karusar’s younger sister to play sweet melodies in response, appreciative for the thoughtfulness.

Hesina hummed. “Why not spend the night beside Naln? Or Mishim?”

Feeling like she was still waiting upon a precipice for Hesina’s answer, Karusar let out a half-manic chuckle. “Naln’s beard itches my face, same reason I won’t date him. Mishim isn’t too bad for cuddling, but I never know when xe is going to set, and if you’ll recall, Salas snores like an axehound.”

“Fair enough.” Sitting up, she brushed her lips against Karusar’s in a brief kiss. “What are you waiting for? Get out some bedrolls. I’m exhausted.”

Karusar ran a lot warmer than Lirin, Hesina discovered from several nights by her side.

She was also comfortable in her stability, a bulwark as strong as the windblades, and it was nice to be held by someone taller than her again.

Oh Wistiow... It had been so long, so painfully long, since she or her husband had had another partner. The grief from their last tryst was still lingering, all these years later.

Though she still wasn’t sure if ‘partner’ really applied to their protector, Hesina was ready to see where this led. The other woman was so skittish, always walking on tiptoes around Hesina, as though terrified the wrong step might break whatever it was they’d begun to form together.

Another side of her weakness to my teasing, I suppose, Hesina considered, looking from the front of the cart towards the horizon, trying to angle her head past the rest of the caravan to get a glimpse of the warcamps. It’s incredible, just how vulnerable she’s made herself. It didn’t come easily to her, that was obvious, and the overabundant cautiousness that came with it made Hesina frown, not at Karusar, but at whoever had taught her to be so careful. I won’t pull away.

Once she’d gotten past her size, her aggressive attitude, and her talent for violence, Hesina found a young woman eager to be cared for. Almost desperate for it. Some mornings, when they woke, Hesina found Karusar had begun to clutch her tightly in her sleep, as though terrified she wouldn’t be there in the morning.

Hesina had also found that, after requesting a moratorium on full-time armor wearing (something Karusar had been considering anyway on Nesh’s behalf), her casual clothes made Karusar look quite dashing. A leather coat, much darker and shorter than Tyn’s, and the sort of trousers that did excellent things to the shape of her legs.

“Today’s the day, isn’t it?” Hesina asked her, voice quiet enough that the others couldn’t overhear.

The day was more than halfway done, and they were, at most, a day or two from their destination.

“Once we make camp,” Karusar confirmed, eyes still forward as she held the horses’ reins.

I don’t want to see you go, Hesina thought, looking up at her. At least this time, she had some warning that there was going to be a changing of the guard, and she actually knew what was happening.

It didn’t make the looming loss any more palatable.

Leaning over, Karusar pressed a positively gentle kiss to Hesina’s temple. “It’s not like I’ll be gone forever,” she promised. “Nesh will be taking point once we’re in the warcamps, but there’ll be more leeway for Danahui and I to sneak in an evening here and there.”

“Promise?” Hesina asked.

“I swear on the honor of my mother and father both.”

Hesina wasn’t entirely sure how much honor that necessarily entailed, but now wasn’t the time to try and fish in that particular spot. “I’ve heard the Shattered Plains have become quite the metropolis. I’d be interested in seeing what sort of wares are available in the markets.”

“So long as you don’t bleed my wallet dry, sure. We can have a proper date.” Karusar didn’t sound as unenthused with the idea as she wanted to pretend, especially considering the anticipationspren were being drawn to her side of the bench, not Hesina’s.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Lirin warned from behind them, halfway through changing Oroden into clean clothes for their arrival. “As someone who successfully courted her, believe me when I say evenings out with Hesina are never what you expect.” Hesina didn’t object.

After all, he was right.

Only a few hours later, the time for goodbyes came. Salas and Naln took the occasion rather blithely, but Hesina made sure to give Karusar a tight hug, and Lirin even offered a taciturn apology, though for what exactly, he didn’t specify.

“You’re good,” Karusar told him with a firm handshake.

Then, she retreated into Tyn’s tent, where the guard captain’s men had delivered a washing basin at Karusar’s earlier request. Between that and several of her own personal trunks from their stormwagon, Karusar claimed she’d have everything Nesh needed to get ready.

From what comments Hesina had heard in passing, she wasn’t sure what to expect when meeting the third sister. Karusar tended to throw out words like, ‘too nice’ and ‘soft as a lurg’, but considering the source, gauging where that fell in any sort of objective metric was difficult. Hesina found herself expecting frills and finery, like what Naln wore, but more feminine.

After several hours of waiting, such expectations proved to be unfounded.

When Nesh emerged, it took Hesina several moments to properly register that this was Karusar’s sister, that the body before her was the same one she had cuddled the night before.

“Greetings,” Nesh said with a low bow, her pinned safehand sleeve brought across her chest, her freehand held behind her back. “It’s my pleasure to finally speak to you, face to face.” The low dip revealed the tight bun she’d pulled her bright red hair into, managed without any fashionable hairspikes, and instead relying on simple thread. “I am Nesh, and from this moment forward, I am at your service.”

The woman was a master-servant, wearing the signature white-and-black uniform that Hesina hadn’t seen in ages, not since leaving her father’s home. Somehow, her white shirt had been tailored in a way that looked perfectly fitting, yet was just baggy enough in the right places to hide the dense musculature beneath. Instead, between it and the black trousers, Nesh looked somehow more dainty, more trim, than her sister. She’d also added a non-standard element, a black vest to match the pants, which only added to her starkly monochromatic appearance.

There was something else different, in the face, that must have been accomplished with powders and oils. All of Karusar’s hard edges were gone, smoothed into something soft and unassuming, and yet... She doesn’t look as though she’s wearing make-up of any kind. She had, however, applied some sort of perfume, judging by the gentle scent emanating from her.

With a smile that looked genuine, if restrained, Nesh explained, “While I would enjoy a social evening with you all, I have duties to attend with Brightness Tyn. If you have need of me, seek me out.”

Then, with a simple incline of her head, she strolled off at a brisk pace.

Hesina watched her go, and tried not to let the disappointment darkening her mood show on her face

It was not very difficult to find Tyn.

Even leaving aside her status as the only armed woman in camp, now that Karusar had retreated into low bass notes in the back of Nesh’s mind, there was something to her swagger, to the wake left in the trail of her passing, that led the master-servant right to her.

Nesh walked through the caravan camp with practiced grace. Small steps, taken quickly, heel to toe, heel to toe, one foot directly in front of the other.

In a more rugged place such as this, her behavior, her demeanor, was drawing attention. Do any look at me and make the connection to my sister? Nesh wondered, idly. No matter. Soon, they’d be in more refined environs, and Nesh would be in her proper element.

“Brightness,” she said the moment she was in Tyn’s earshot. “A word?”

The con woman had been getting herself dinner, some stew from a communal source, but one look at Nesh had her recentered. “Karu?” She let out a whistle as she approached. “Look at you. This one must be... Ana?”

“Nesh,” she corrected, tone light. “Please refer to me as such, Brightness Tyn. My sister, though able to hear what you say, is in no mood to speak with you.” Nesh allowed her smile to grow to the boundaries of acceptable propriety. “Unlike myself.”

From that spark in her eyes, Tyn found the request amusing. She thinks this is a confidence scheme, that I’m just Karusar in a different outfit. Nesh did her best not to be bothered by that. Tyn would learn, with time. Oh, how she would learn.

“What’s on your mind?” Tyn asked her.

“That is best left for a private discussion. Did you have any other duties to attend to? Or may we adjourn to your tent?” There wasn’t an ounce of spice to her words, not a trace of sultry undertones. Time and experience had taught Nesh to avoid such things while serving in even a semi-professional capacity, and leave untoward intent to subtext.

It didn’t take much to convince Tyn. After following her through a few last tasks for the evening, they journeyed together to her lodgings.

Once they were alone, the flaps of the tent barring any outside observance, Nesh allowed herself to relax that stiff posture, to step deeply into Tyn’s personal space, to place her freehand on the other woman’s arm. “You expressed interest in resuming a relationship with Karusar, but... to be entirely frank, I doubt she’ll change her mind.”

“I’m getting mixed signals,” Tyn replied, looking down at the fingers gently caressing her forearm.

“Karusar isn’t interested. I am. I believe in second chances, Tyn. As you said, it’s been so long. We’re all older, wiser, more experienced. I want to know you better, and I’d like it if you knew me too.”

From the slow blink of her light tan eyes, Tyn hadn’t been expecting that. Then, that fetching smile blazed a trail across her face from cheek to cheek, and Nesh found herself with an arm around the small of her back, pulling her close. “More experienced? There’ve been others since?”

Nesh couldn’t restrain the giggle coming from her lips, and so she didn’t even really try. “Many more, sweetie.” She hated that she had to bend down to bring their faces together, but it was worth it to feel Tyn’s breath on her skin. “Well? What do you think?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Then Tyn pulled Nesh close and kissed her with a possessive force, as though trying to claim all those years she and Karusar had spent apart.

Nesh allowed herself to be swept away.

THE END OF

Part Two

Chapter Text

Interludes

Ironsights, Tyn, Moash, Akilu

I-4

Ironsights

Every bar in the damnable cosmere was the same. Dark and crowded and loud.

One of those Seventeenth Shard losers would have called it ‘The Touch of Adonalsium’ or some shit, because at this point they’re pretty settled into their ontology fetish. As if the dictates of whatever fool who started this whole mess mattered anymore, after all that had been done to ruin his perfect little sandbox.

Ironsights sat with her back to a wall, her fourth night so far frequenting a drinking hole favored by the men of a rot-brained highprince scampered off back home.

Missions like this, Ironsights almost wished she was a Tineye, because while her ears were sharp, someone really needed to speak up for her to hear them over the din of ambient conversation. Leaning forward on the table, trying to ignore the parts that felt sticky from spilled ale, Ironsights kept her senses as alert as she could.

As had been the case ever since she first stepped foot on this rock, Ironsights was donned in her proper attire. Most of her body was covered with a dark cloak, hood included. The colorblind morons of this planet seemed to think it was black, but it didn’t take some Breath-addled fool from Nalthis to tell it was a heavy gray, the hue of rough iron.

Beneath the concealing shadows of her hood, the only features clearly visible, at least from afar, were the goggles she wore, fashioned to look like spikes driven right through her eyes. Seeing through that tempered glass made the interior of the room look darker, of course, but that was a small price to pay, compared to the terror they inspired in any with proper sense.

This planet was grating on Ironsights the longer she stayed there. Roshar might make the Basin look like the Final Empire... It was tempting to see how much of Vorin society she could dismantle, given the right time and tools.

But that wasn’t why she was there, she had to remind herself. Boss-man wants a check-in. Only way to do that done is to get an invite from the hunter.

So she’d play her target's game. She'd hunt. She’d kill. And, in the process, try to make this ball of wind and lies just a boxing better, in the only way she knew how.

Unlike her previous victims, the current corpse-to-be was a little better about personal security. Unless she wanted to play things extra risky, she was going to need to find the perfect spark, the flint to set this powderkeg off.

“I’m tired of it!” came a half-shout from a nearby table. “I didn’t join the army for this!”

The circle of men were all soldiers, all in the right colors. Red and blue.

Compared to whoever had spoken, his companions weren’t quite so easy to hear, but it seemed obvious they were trying to hush their friend up, sooth whatever the drink had brought out of him.

It didn’t work. Perfect.

“Storm you, then! If you’re happy fighting for a coward like him, then go crawl back and complain!” The man rose with a huff, his rioting emotions obvious for any to see with that pool of phantom blood under his feet, and seemed ready to leave the bar behind.

Ironsights had his scent. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave.

As quickly and quietly as she could, the woman navigated the space between them, which was pretty damn quick and quiet as a whisper, moving past all the tables and patrons and servers, and reached up to grab him by the shoulder, pull him back towards her.

The man turned to face Ironsights in a rush, though the sheer difference in height between them, more than a head and a half, left him confused for a moment, before he looked down and spied who had stopped his exit. “What do you want?”

“Same thing you want.” Then, curling her fingers into the collar of his uniform, she tugged him down close, and whispered, “I want to set things right.”

Once she’d dragged the man back to her table, Ironsights realized he wasn’t quite as nondescript as she’d first thought him.

There was something hawkish about his face, a predatory cast to those dark eyes of his that told Ironsights she’d chosen perfectly. He was lean, but something about what she’d felt through his uniform told her he was strong.

“How exactly,” he asked, folding his arms in front of him, “are we going to ‘make things right’?”

Ironsights snorted. “Easiest way there is.” Beneath her cowl, she smiled, the torchlight in the bar glinting off the pearly whites enough to be visible, even in the shadows of her hood. “We make him a corpse.”

“Ruthar?” The man didn’t sound aghast, or dismayed, or anything inconvenient like that. He sounded excited.

“Who else?” Reaching into her cloak, Ironsights pulled out her personal canteen, taking a swig of water. “Way I hear it, no one’s gonna miss ‘im much. Certainly not all the folks like you stuck working under him, let alone the bruised and battered wife, and the scared and scarred children.”

His hands were on the table now, splayed out before him, leaning in with a curiosity that didn’t show on his face. “They’ll just put someone else in his place. Maybe not as bad, but still, another lighteyes. Nothing will really change.” He was still trying to play hard to get.

That was fine. Ironsights could appreciate the thrill of a chase. “You give me the opportunity for a clean, easy kill, I’ll let you keep his Shards.” It felt odd, referring to mere weaponry with that term, but such was the local parlance. So long as her accomplice understood what she was offering, that was all that really mattered.

Still, the idea of offering Shards, real ones, made her briefly consider what it would be like, if she could somehow find a way to off Harmony himself.

Not that she’d want to take his place, mind, but considering she held him responsible for the Basin, for the systems of power and abuse that had grown up after his Ascendence, it wasn’t as though Ironsights lacked motivation for such an act.

“Why not take them for yourself?”

Ironsights scowled, though she knew her conversational partner wasn’t able to see it. “No interest. I work best from afar.” And I’m not exactly interested in swinging around a corpse that severs people’s souls. She didn’t know the exact mechanics behind the burned out eyes those Blades left behind, but in her opinion, this was a mystery she was better off not solving.

He didn’t ask if she could actually pull off what she was offering, for which Ironsights was grateful. She’d rather not require a practical demonstration of what she could do, of what technology rendered her a uniquely deadly individual on the surface of Roshar.

After all, it would be loud, and it would be messy.

That said, her answer didn’t seem to fully convince him, judging by the set of his jaw. Might try to backstab me. She wasn’t concerned, should that be the case.

He’d fail. They always failed.

“Alright, it’s a deal. What do I do?” Rather than give a verbal response, Ironsights handed the man a small metal device, with a ruby inset on one side, a heliodor housed in a casing on the other. The soldier looked it over, confused. “What is this?”

“A fabrial.” Dipshit. “Wait for your highprince to go off on a scouting mission, small group, and volunteer for it.” She’d done her research. Ruthar enjoyed separating from the army every so often, unplanned, usually after a spat of domestic cruelty on his part. It was the sort of thrown-together mission that soldiers had to sign up for, lest the highprince start picking people at random.

No one was particularly excited by the idea of more time around the man, so it wasn’t as though her conspirator needed to worry about being edged out of the running.

“Once you do, just before you go riding off, turn the casing on the ruby until it flashes once. Then, flip it over, do the same thing with the heliodor.” The first, so she could be alerted that the time was nigh. The second, so she could track him. “Keep the device on you, then go on the assignment, stick as close as you can to the highprince. When I start making noise, it’ll be up to you to get in close and pick up what he drops.”

The soldier was quiet, before nodding soberly and pocketing the fabrial. “You’ve thought this through. Are you sure you don’t need me to help? I’m sure I can take at least a few members of his honor guard down myself.”

“No need.” She made no attempt to hide her annoyance with his request. Another thing I hate about this place. The second someone realizes I’m a woman, suddenly I need their manly help to bring the ultra-violence. She tried to center herself, take a breath. Sooner this is done, sooner I speak to Mraize, sooner I can take a hike.

“Why are you doing this?” the soldier asked. “You say you don’t want the Shards, okay, that makes sense, considering...” He left her gender unstated, but waved a hand at her nonetheless and continued on. “...you could still sell them. Get rich.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, Ironsights shook her head. “What you’re not getting is, I don’t care about the money. I’m not in this for personal profit.” Putting her arms on the table, she clenched gloved hands tight enough to make the leather squeak.

“Where I come from, we have brightlords too. Powerful, arrogant, and once upon a time, able to kill the average darkeyes on the street without consequence, for no reason at all.” She did her best to translate the terms to something this man was familiar with, better for getting her point across. “Difference between here and there, was the big bad in charge, he decided someone needed to reign these bastards in.”

She took another swig of water, relishing that slightly metallic aftertaste on her tongue, and savoring the way the man she spoke to leaned in closer and closer the longer she paused. The boy had a hook in his mouth, he was caught, and he didn’t even realize it yet.

“That’s where the Inquisitors came in. Mean sons of bitches, tough, and no matter how strong, no matter how seemingly untouchable the brightlords got? They always had to worry about the Inquisitors.” She exhaled, a sigh of frustration. “Now, I ain’t gonna pretend the Inquisitors were righteous. They weren’t. But when everything fell apart, and things got rebuilt? Why, the nobles are right back where they were. There are ‘laws’ in place to prevent the old, open cruelty, but who cares if they kill with debt and starvation, instead of fists and knives? People are dead either way.”

“But what happened to the Inquisitors?” Oh, this story had hit a nerve. If Ironsights had offered the spikes to him there and then to become one himself, he’d probably lay himself out on the table and grit his teeth.

What a sight that would be. Too bad Ironsight didn’t have the knowledge or the desire to make it a reality.

“Gone. All except one. So I assume their mantle, and I do what needs to be done.” It had been so simple, so right, to make that choice. These rusting nobles like to claim the image of the Survivor, a man who would have killed them all dead if he had the chance. Fine. Maybe they need to remember what Kelsier survived, what once preyed upon their kind.

The soldier nodded, resolve in his eyes, and offered a hand. “What do I call you?”

“Ironsights. When this is done, make sure to spread the name around, make it clear I’m the one who did this.” She had to get rid of that terrible new moniker somehow. “You?”

“Moash.”

“Well, Moash, let’s knock a brightlord off his throne.”

Chapter Text

I-5

Tyn

There was no single secret underpinning the art of confidence.

Anyone who told you otherwise was selling you something. And, to be entirely fair, Tyn herself had done exactly that, again and again and again. It wasn't her fault pretty young apprentices were so gullible, now was it?

The truth to her profession was that, while it comprised a dozen or two skills, many of which intersected and aligned, the key to success was one that couldn't be grasped, no matter how badly one tried.

Luck. You had to be consistently, frequently, lucky.

“Sweetie?” Karu asked Tyn, nestled up close at the front of a wagon. She was still doing her ‘Nesh’ act, all submissive sweetness, not breaking character for a moment they’d spent together since her big costume change. I underestimated her. Never would have guessed she was any good at acting. “Do you have any place to stay in the warcamp?”

They’d be arriving that day, perhaps an hour or two from that very moment. “I’ll find something.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” The statement came with a light, breezy laugh, musical in a way that Tyn had a feeling might easily ensnare a lesser woman. “Nonetheless, I think it would be prudent to leave you with our address, before we part ways.” Then, Karu reached out with the hand nearest Tyn, lightly running her fingers along the swell of the con woman’s hip.

That intimate contact bypassed rational thought, earning a squirm from Tyn before she could fight it. Oh, she is dangerous. The thought made her smile. Dangerous, in the right way. It had been some time since Tyn was last entangled with someone this experienced.

Keeping her eyes on the road before them, using her stick to nudge the chulls forward just a little faster, Tyn nodded. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll be busy, though. Can’t guarantee when I’ll stop by.”

“The same is true for me,” Karu told her, a sigh dragging her words down. “So much to do, and the exact timetable for it all is still a mystery.” With a serene smile gracing her perfectly studied calmness, the woman said, “We’ll forge an opportunity, should one not be granted.”

Tyn nodded, smiling with Karu and changing the subject, all the while relishing what had fallen into her lap.

Yes, a con woman needed to be lucky, and as always, Tyn’s luck was the best in the business.

When Karu had told her that she and her charges slash friends slash bedwarmers were staying in the Sebarial warcamp, Tyn’s expectations were mild.

Perhaps a rented room at an inn, or a rented shack that would barely contain the five people plus baby. Nothing to brag about, but certainly respectable as a choice in lodging. (Tyn herself was, of course, getting a free stay in an upscale Sadeas property, all expenses paid by the masters who held her leash. A sign of how she was moving up in the world.)

Thus, when she approached one of the nicest buildings on the block, made of stone and wood and large enough to house a dozen people without much fuss, Tyn needed some time to recover from her shock before she knocked on the door.

“O-o-oh, it’s... it’s y-y-y-you again...” The person who greeted her at the door was the... man? Woman? Tyn honestly wasn’t sure, and didn’t even have a name for them. A shock of brown curls, short enough to pick up like a sack of lavis grain, and thin enough to know there wouldn’t be much of a struggle if she tried it.

But last time she’d seen them, they’d affected an attitude as dry as an old tome and as sharp as a dagger. It was the sort of demeanor Tyn had seen only a few times in her life, and never with people she felt safe in slighting.

Now, the thing looked scared of their own shadow, knees knocking and eyes watery. Tyn kept a smile on her face, though she already felt it fraying at the edges. Can’t let my guard down around this one, no matter what my eyes are telling me. “It’s me, again, but Karu’s expecting me.”

Her words actually got the skittish (or faux skittish?) man (she was going to go with man, at least for the time being) to look Tyn in the eyes and frown at her. “N-n-no she’s not. Nesh i-is. And you’re l-lucky she even gives you the t-t-t-t-t... the t-t... that she even sees you at all.”

That raised Tyn’s eyebrows, but there were no further stuttered jabs. Instead, the little thing dutifully led Tyn inside, through the expansive and well-furnished home, to a room on the ground floor with an open door.

Inside, Karu was still in her master-servant finery, all whites and blacks. The strangest thing was, the clothes weren’t a forgery. Or, if they were, they were a damn good one. I’ve tried that sort of con before, Tyn marveled, but it fell apart so easily. Master-servant is the rare job that it’s near impossible to fake. Something would always give you away. References or emblem stitching or simply the quality of the material.

Sitting at a desk, staring at a number of papers with an intent that did something fascinating to those brilliant golden irises of hers, Karu took a moment to realize who was present, and looked up from her work with a sudden blinking of her eyes.

Whatever tension, whatever stony expression had found its way onto her face before, was soulcasted into soft running streamwater as she saw Tyn, a sparkle in her eyes. “Thank you for bringing her here, Nomon. I’ll handle things from here.”

Tyn awoke from her unexpected nap sweaty and still recovering from her earlier exertions.

Which was a bit silly, considering she’d mostly just laid back and relished the subservience of the woman currently cuddled into Tyn’s arms.

She didn’t undersell her experience. It was refreshing. As much as Tyn enjoyed playing the part of the mentor, the guiding hand to show a girl how to remove her safehand glove without fear, the proud teacher ready to see what her student had learned by practical demonstration, there were definitely perks to having someone between her legs who knew what she was doing.

Looking to Karu, Tyn felt her lips curl into a smile without asking her brain first. Damn, the girl was pretty. Such long and lustrous red hair, such perfectly tanned copper skin, such curves she’d been hiding under armor and uniform. Strength and softness, all rolled into one.

All too eager to curl up, Tyn noticed, to pretend to be smaller than she was. Part of this ‘Nesh’ persona? Or something Karu never showed me when we were stupid kids?

Before she could consider the matter any further, she noticed a red light calling for her attention in the darkened room, a flashing glow from inside her coat, discarded halfway to the bed.

Fearspren began to accumulate around her, purple globs coalescing on the bedding and over Karu’s face, and with as much speed as she could manage without waking her dozing bedmate up, Tyn extricated herself from the covers and pulled the spanreed from its pocket. Her bare feet made nary a sound on the wooden floor, such a luxury, and her complete and utter nakedness was far from her mind.

Without sparing a thought of the papers already on the desk, Tyn sat herself down there and placed the fabrial atop it, turning the ruby setting and getting through the initial coded greeting to confirm it was truly her.

Sweat began to bead on her forehead as she waited for the meat of the conversation to begin. How long did I leave them waiting? The answer could decide how long she lived.

‘Our benefactors have bade me inquire as to the status of your new assignment. What progress is there in placing yourself closely with Lady Ana?’

Looking back towards the bed, where Karu still slept, insensible to the world around her, Tyn fought down the unhelpful emotions coiling in her chest and wrote her response. ‘Contact established, and I should have a preliminary report on her activities ready before the week is out.’ She paused, then continued, ‘Is there any word regarding the remnants of my team?’

‘None, Brightness. As before, all we have are the confirmed deaths and the assumed.’ From there, the back and forth continued, with Tyn pressing in a few more requests for additional information regarding her new target.

She did her best to put any thoughts of her men, so carefully chosen, out of her mind. They were gone now, dead, and it did no one any favors to obsess over their ashes.

It’s the business, she told herself. No one in this line of work has expectations of old age.

Once the conversation finished, Tyn hid the spanreed back in her coat, before turning her attention to Karu’s papers. Details of the political situation in the Shattered Plains, requests for aid from people Tyn had never heard of, a half-finished correspondence to someone named ‘Mora’. Much to consider, condense, and leave untouched for Karu when she was done.

It had been shocking, when she’d first gotten the orders. Told to locate and observe ‘Lady Ana Kevanar, also known in some circles as Danahui the Mad, Karusar, or Nesh.’ There had been no specific instructions on how to pursue the task, merely to ensure it was done.

Tyn had been ready for the headsman's axe to fall upon her head, after her failure to kill Jasnah Kholin. Instead, she was being given a second chance. A way to finally join the Ghostbloods.

Seeing Karu’s name had been a shock, but she’d known immediately she’d do as ordered.

Imagine her surprise when she met the woman on the road, leading her merry band of misfits, just a few days later. It had been so easy to swoop in, pull her out of a sticky situation, and ingratiate herself to her old flame.

The shame her scheme brought was easy to ignore. It was nothing personal. Maybe, years down the line, they’d look back at it all and laugh.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

After all, Tyn was lucky. And she’d ride that luck as far as it would take her.

Chapter Text

I-6

Moash

Moash marched, surrounded by fellow soldiers, and felt alone. This was nothing new.

Whether it was with the caravans or in the army, Moash struggled to grasp the camaraderie that came so easily to others. That was fine, he told himself.

After all, it was the distance between him and others that made his plans for the day possible.

With a handful of other common soldiers, the assembled honor guard, and Highprince Ruthar himself, Moash wandered the outskirts of Alethkar, now several hours away from the rest of the army. There was grass all around them, yet none where they stood nor where they went, a bare area of ground where their presence had frightened the plants away.

Looking up at the man, Moash felt nothing but contempt for Ruthar. You don’t deserve those Shards. He hated how resplendent the Plate looked on him, how it silently upheld the man’s claim to authority with its magnificent presence.

Well, if events went as planned, soon it and his Blade would be in better hands.

The possibility still didn’t seem real, but any time he started to doubt, he remembered that night in the tavern.

The assassin, Ironsights, had been arresting in her intensity.

The experience had felt like talking to a Voidbringer from the stories, or bargaining with the Nightwatcher herself. Yet... there hadn’t been any true deal struck, any payment expected of Moash. He barely understood his part in her plan, and yet he’d done as she asked, volunteering for the scouting trip and using that strange fabrial to send her a signal before they left the main host.

Still the device sat in a pocket of his uniform, something Moash reminded himself with the feel of its weight shifting back and forth in its hiding place as he walked.

I’m going to walk out of this with a highprince dead, and more wealth than some kingdoms possess, Moash thought, torn between awe and suspicion. There should be some cost to that, shouldn’t there?

Of course, some would say the act itself was the cost, a betrayal of his loyalty.

The idea made Moash want to laugh, but bitterness kept it down, his eyes still on the figure in Shardplate, the pieces painted red and light blue, hurting the horse he rode on with his bulk. Loyalty? To that monster? Even for a lighteyes, Ruthar is despicable. Yet, he’d been the only highprince willing to hire Moash as a soldier, and not in some other, more menial position. Some days, he wondered if he’d been better off going to Sadeas recruiters instead.

There was no respect to be found in Ruthar’s army, no glory, no honor. And certainly no chances to find his revenge, not when the highprince was abandoning the war, vacating the Shattered Plains to go back to his own lands.

The sun was sinking low as they passed a ridge of rock to one side, a mass of twisted and gnarled greenery in the space it protected. As they left the Unclaimed Hills and began to return to Alethkar proper, such sights became more and more common, as the land around them became lush and fertile.

With every new feature of the landscape they passed, every rolling hill or copse of trees, Moash looked, trying to spy any sign of his accomplice.

“Nervous?” asked one of the other soldiers, voice hushed. They had to do that in the presence of the highprince, who was known for taking out his terrible temper on any who gave him an excuse. Darkeyes talking when they should have been marching? A perfect target.

Moash spared the man a glance, before returning his eyes up above, to the ridge. He wasn’t familiar with the soldier, but that wasn’t a surprise. After all, there was so little distinctive about him, save for the wart beside his nose. “Why would I be nervous?” Moash asked him, voice casual.

Something in how the man looked at him shifted, a narrowing of the eyes that made Moash want to reach for a side-knife, but then another occurrence stole both of their attention.

From the direction of the ridge came a sound like a restrained thunderclap, and before them, a few paces behind the highprince’s horse, one of the honor guard fell. All eyes fixed to the body on the ground, the real blood, not angerspren, pooling around his chest.

“Form u—”

The order was never finished.

BAM!

Another explosion of sound, and with it another body falling to the stones.

Any sense of military cohesion started to waver. The honor guard, or what was left of them, formed up around their highprince, who was cursing beneath his helm, turning this way and that, hand out to summon his Blade. The rest of the soldiers had their hands tightly gripped to their spears, but fearspren began to squirm at their feet.

Even Moash, who knew this was coming, who was the cause of it, felt a sharp pierce of terror. What did I make a deal with? he wondered.

“Show yourself!” called Ruthar, screaming out into the evening. But just as mist was beginning to coalesce into his hand, just as he started to shout something else out to his mysterious attacker, another blast tore through the air, and in a scattering of molten metal, his helm shattered.

Beneath his protective headwear, Ruthar was an oily man, a fact made all the worse by the accumulated sweat of wearing his Plate so long. The short black beard around his mouth made reading an exact expression difficult, at least from a distance, but as he turned, recoiled, the summoning of his Blade failing suddenly, the side of his head was exposed, revealing the damp spot just above his ear, dripping blood down to the stones.

It was happening. And regardless of what Moash had been told to do, he knew it was time.

While the other soldiers broke formation, some of them frozen, some of them turning to run, Moash moved toward the highprince, saying nothing, hoping the chaos of the situation would tear attention away from him.

He thought wrong. As he approached, several of the honor guard moved closer to rebuff him, hands to their swords, while Ruthar himself looked down at Moash, his light eyes glittering in the evening light with malice. “What is this? Darkling, you know something, tell me and—” BAM!

Whatever threat or promise he’d been about to make died with a loud sound and a sudden hole through his forehead.

Blood began to spill out of Ruthar, a trickle escaping through the new opening in his head, and he slipped from his horse, clattering to the stones below. The grass retreated in a wide circle around the impact, a space the honor guard quickly moved to fill, hostility against Moash forgotten in their haste to reach their highprince’s side.

Whatever it was Ironsights was doing, she didn’t stop. As the horse trotted away, frightened by the thunderclaps, the remaining members of the honor guard fell, one by one, to an opponent they could not see nor comprehend.

The rest of the soldiers were running, and when Moash realized that the only ones left were him and two— BAM! —one last member of Ruthar’s honor guard, he moved in.

It didn’t matter that the soldier was wearing fine armor, carrying a sword, turning and looking around with irises so damnably light. What mattered is that he had dismissed Moash as another cowardly darkeyes, and that made it easy for Moash to ram his spear through an unprotected spot at this side.

Any fear Moash had felt before fled, leaving him feeling... storms, he didn’t rightly know. His heart pounded like a celebratory drum, and as he brought his knife to his enemy’s throat, it felt for a moment so glorious, so righteous, that a gloryspren lit the growing dark as the man’s lifeblood stained the stones.

But then it was done. And all Moash had to show for it was a corpse and bloody hands.

Am I happy? he thought. I should be.

But no, he wasn’t. His heart was an empty void, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next.

Something moving through the foliage under the ridge caught Moash’s attention, and as the plants shied back as the edges, he saw Ironsights walking at a steady gait towards him, still clad in that same cloak, eyes still hidden behind heavy black glass in the shape of spikes.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she growled, her voice still tinged with an accent utterly unfamiliar to him.

Moash nudged the corpse with his foot and shrugged. “He’s dead either way. What does it matter?”

Rather than answer, Ironsights just grunted. She surveilled the scene, confirming they were truly alone now. All the other soldiers were far enough away now, past the hills, that there was no chance of them seeing whatever was to come next.

“Aren’t you gonna take your prize?” the assassin asked him, approaching the still twitching honor guard who’d fallen last. She’d pulled something from under her cloak, holding it in a gloved hand.

It was unlike anything Moash had seen in all his years. A metal object, held by a handle, with a short protrusion pointed forward. Is that her weapon? he wondered while he stepped up to Ruthar, ready to strip his body of the spoils.

Any thoughts on what Ironsights was doing with that thing, which she’d begun to point down at the barely living man, halted abruptly when Moash noticed something. “Where’s the Blade? He’s... he’s supposed to drop it when...” His eyes widened and he realized his mistake, their mistake, just as the highprince’s hand started to flail near Moash’s leg, fingers grasping.

He’s trying to grab me, Moash realized numbly. He’s still alive, and he’s still wearing Shardplate. If he grabs my leg... He didn’t want to think about what would happen if those strength-enhanced fingers squeezed where they may fight purchase.

In a flash of movement, Ironsight darted to Moash’s side, pointing her weapon at Ruthar and— BAM —without her moving a single finger, the weapon let out that horribly loud sound, one that nearly deafened Moash from so close, and put another hole in the highprince, this time in his neck.

His flailing stopped, and they waited until finally his Blade coalesced from the air, there for Moash to take.

Fingers gripping the handle as quickly as he could, as though afraid she might take it for herself as she’d promised she wouldn’t, Moash looked towards this woman who may have just saved his life, and who had undoubtedly won him a fortune.

In her haste to reach his side, her cloak had been pulled back, revealing more of her body underneath than Moash had ever gotten a chance to see before.

It was just a glimpse, her hands moved quickly to cover once more, but before that happened he saw hardy trousers and a buttoned-up masculine shirt on a lithe frame, the hint of something long and thin being held at her back, and more objects like the one she held worn on her hip.

“Job’s done.” One of the honor guard tried to move, tried to speak, though only managed to make a pathetic gurgling sound. Ironsights sighed. “Job’s mostly done. I’ll handle clean-up, you take your rusting prizes and skedaddle.” Then she went back to her task.

BAM!

Moash shuddered, then got to work.

Clad in that armor, Ruthar’s corpse was horribly heavy, but Moash knew enough about armor from what scant time he’d spent among smithies in his youth to have some idea on how to take it off, with a little trial and error. Or, perhaps, a lot of trial and error, but he got the hang of it nonetheless.

As Moash worked, rarely putting his new Blade down for fear of losing it, an idea began to grow in his mind, bolstered by what he’d seen beneath that cloak. “Those weapons of yours.” He heard, rather than saw, as Ironsights stopped moving. “I want one.”

“Too bad.” As was so often the case, the assassin’s rough voice was dismissive.

And Moash had been dismissed too many times in his life to simply take that. Not now.

Not holding a Shardblade.

But as he turned to face her, to contemplate the act forming in his mind, Moash was surprised to see Ironsights filling his field of vision, taller than him now as he knelt, and—

The tip of her metal weapon slammed against his gritted teeth.

He stilled as completely as he could.

A terrible terror filled him even as shockspren burst around his head, but Ironsights wasn't done.

She pushed.

When Moash tried to speak or scream or beg, he wasn't sure which, the barrel of her armament filled his mouth, pressing far enough back that he felt the urge to gag.

“Don’t get any funny ideas. I can fire this as fast as I can think. No muscles required. You move that sword hand before I say you can move, and your brains’ll be decorating the stones alongside your highprince’s.” Her voice was quiet. Intense. A personal thing, shared between the two of them.

From this close, the hooded figure with spikes for eyes seemed not a woman, but a monster. For the first time, he noticed marks around her sockets, though whether they were permanent tattoos or temporary paint, he couldn't tell.

Anger sparked in his chest, defeating the cloying emotions keeping him passive. He tried to speak, mouth filled with her weapon or no, and when that proved utterly unintelligible, she said gruffly, "Turn back towards the body, and say your piece." Then she stepped back, and Moash could breathe through his lips again.

Moash coughed and sputtered for a moment, then rushed to do as she asked, all the while bristling with indignation. “You see it too, damn you. The lighteyes need to be taken down, and... a Blade and Plate will help, but no one has weapons like yours.” His eyes drifted towards Ruthar’s dead body, to the brightlord she’d so effortlessly knocked from his throne. “I need to be able to do what you can.”

She snorted, then spat to one side. “I don’t need a sidekick. Enjoy the magic sword and fancy armor. Ask for more again, try to take more, and you’ll be dead before your body hits the ground.” Then, the muffled sound of boots on stone announced her withdrawal.

It was tempting to push back against her words. Whatever she said, whatever she’d done, she was still just a woman, and Moash held power in his hand. If she wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he could always just take it.

But then he looked at the dead man, the half a dozen dead men, and any thoughts of violence were quelled by soul-freezing terror.

By the time he’d stripped what he could of the Plate off Ruthar’s corpse, wearing it piece by piece as it came off, Moash turned and found himself alone. Ironsights was gone, and his only company was the dead.

Where do I go next? Moash wondered. He hadn’t thought about that before. I’d thought she’d help, that she might take me with her. So much for that idea.

With nothing else coming to his mind, Moash strode off with his Shards, away from the army he’d been a part of.

Once again, he was alone. That was simply the way of his life.

Chapter Text

I-7

Not a Goddess

Nearly every lowlander Akilu met seemed to assume she was an uncultured buffoon.

As though the fact she’d spent most of her life on a Peak meant she was unused to beauty, unlearned on lowlander customs, and unphased by their rude words. Such things had yet to come to blows, but at times it was difficult to hold herself back.

In some ways, the casual, easy to miss assumptions were worse than the outright bile spat at her by particularly loathsome individuals. At least the latter, they were not people Akilu wanted to speak to anyway. The former? Sometimes, they were as kind as they were pitying.

And yet...

Hands on a railing, Akilu ignored the foot traffic and the palanquins and the rickshaws that passed behind her, and kept her eyes focused forward. From halfway up the city, on the edge of the central switchback street that ran from the docks to the Conclave, Akilu could see Kharbranth below her.

The bells making music in the lightest breeze, the buildings in an incredible variety of hues, the ocean splayed out across the horizon reflecting the afternoon sunlight.

Kharbranth was beautiful, that could not be denied.

Yet, when Akilu noticed she was beginning to draw the attention of a rare awespren, she instead sought out and focused her emotions to bring shamespren to her instead, letting their red and white petals fall around her once they were near enough. I do not want them to think I’m amazed by this city, she reminded herself, mouth set to a thin line. I refuse to embarrass my people or my gods. I refuse to be the person the lowlanders expect of me.

Forcing her attention away from the bustle of the city below, the sights and the smells and the sounds, Akilu turned herself to move with the flow of foot traffic, and headed down to the nearest market.

When they’d first arrived in this city, nearly two weeks ago, Akilu had been surprised that Marionette had rented them rooms in the middle of the city, right off the Ralinsa, rather than some private nook, out of sight from prying eyes. “You told me you were hiding,” she’d said, that very day. “What we are doing, she does not seem to be hiding.”

Marionette had just snorted. “We’re not hiding, we’re avoiding attention. That’s totally different.” The monochromatic woman hadn’t even been looking at Akilu as she spoke, her voice the usual bored drawl. “If we hid, it’d seem like we’re worth paying attention to. Out in the open, we faaaaade into the background.”

Akilu did not understand it then, and she understood it even less now, considering both siblings refused to leave their rented rooms unless there was no other option. “Our features are too noticeable!” Scalpel had explained. “Scadrian features don’t quite cognate to anything local, so if we’re out and about too much, people will be curious!” Which, in Akilu’s mind, was a silly thing to quibble about, considering Scalpel’s own rampant curiosity.

Their directives were a contradiction, but that seemed to fit the siblings up, down, and sideways.

A smile had begun to cross Akilu’s face without asking beforehand, and Akilu decided to allow it. There was a breeze on this warm summer day, little gods both of nature and of emotions swarmed this way and that, and the stew she was to make tonight was going to be incredible.

This she ensured by going to all the best market stalls, speaking in passable Veden with each man in turn to receive the ingredients she’d be using for all her upcoming meals.

“Have you had any luck?” she asked the last merchant in turn, with little hope in her heart.

To her shock the Thaylen man, seated behind an expanse of herbs and vegetables, reached behind his stand and riffled through drawers before producing a small wooden box, handing it to Akilu with a toothy grin. “Look for yourself!”

Inside the box were a few dozen small seeds, nearly spherical and covered in a rough, slightly spiky texture. Akilu could not be sure on sight if this is what she was asked to find, but she similarly had no reason to doubt their authenticity. “The price?” Her hand was already reaching for her sphere pouch, ready to spend the siblings money on these promises of future life.

“No, no, no,” the man groaned, waving away with an airy gesture any need for payment. “Take them, and only promise they will be planted, cared for, used well.”

“By the honor of my...” Akilu’s mouth went dry, and she had to fight down the word ‘father’ like it was a particularly vile glob of vomit. She barely managed to say instead, “...family, yes, they will grow.”

With that small box added to her bags of meats and grains and fibrous plants, Akilu set out for their rented dwelling, and tried to ignore the hole in her heart.

The stew was already simmering when one of the siblings entered the common room.

Scalpel had once again chosen to walk about without the long white coat, the thick gloves, or the hardy garment evidently called ‘overalls’. Instead, he entered the common space wearing nothing more than a chest wrap to cover his breasts and a pair of trousers hiked up a smidge past his waist.

Strolling over to the kitchen, Scalpel leaned over the counter separating him from Akilu, resting his head in the softness of his own arms. “No gross stuff?” His voice lacked the exuberant brightness Akilu had first gotten used to from Scalpel, instead dripping with weariness.

Still, he was trying to smile, which meant he was feeling a broam better than he’d been the day before.

“I would not include anything you’ve complained of before,” she replied in Unkalaki. Whatever method the siblings used for speaking her native tongue, she was thankful for it. Akilu kept her eyes on the stew, giving it a few stirs, trying to gauge when it would be the time to add the next gamut of ingredients. “Your body, he is still needing the right kinds of food. You should not starve him.”

The grown woman filled his mouth with air and blew it out of his closed lips in a way that resembled flatulence. “Excuse you, I am an expert in the human form. I’ve forgotten more about nutrition than most people have ever learned.” Perhaps, on a better day, such a proclamation would have come with a grin and a sharp laugh and a dramatic pose. On this day, it came out as a dull statement that may as well have been an observation on the weather.

“Then you should know—”

“While I choose to abstain from most cooked vegetable matter for textural reasons,” Scalpel cut in, tone flat, a cadence to his words that hinted this was far from the first time he’d had to say this, “I more than make up for it by including hard tubers in my diet, such as your Rosharan curnips, as well as a wide variety of uncooked fruits. I know what I’m doing.” HIs last words were trailed by a sigh as he turned his head to the side, nestling it further into the squishy meat of his arms.

Akilu couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and instead focused on the stew.

Or at least, that was the plan, up until Akilu found words leaving her mouth without proper consideration. “It isn’t as bad as you think.” Scalpel didn’t reply. “I’m an older sister. I know the sort of... disappointment, that she is feeling towards you.” None of her siblings had ever been caught stealing a dead body, but the point remained. “You should talk to her.”

“But I don’t want to...” Scalpel moaned.

Fighting down a laugh as she added more lavis grain and spices to her stew, along with a heaping pinch of salt, Akilu used her hidden weapon. “Check the grocery bags. There’s something there for you.”

With a groan, the grown woman did as asked while dragging his feet, riffling around inside the bag until he found the box.

“You found them!” Scalpel exclaimed, and just hearing his voice, Akilu knew it had worked. “You’re sure these are the right seeds?!”

“Pretty sure,” Akilu told him, “but you might want to get confirmation, just in case.” Trying a sip of the stew, she was satisfied it could cook a while on its own, and turned to look at Scalpel.

He wasn’t there.

In the time between asking his questions and Akilu taking that sip, he had bolted into his room, taking out one of his long, heavy travel trunks without showing even a hint of muscle strain. Despite that, carrying the load (which Akilu estimated weighed about as much as her twin brother) made the normally hidden muscles bulge in Scalpel’s arms, revealing the strength buried under the softness.

Scalpel rarely showed it off, but by this point, Akilu was beginning to think he could lift a small chull off the ground, if he had a good reason to do so.

Setting the trunk down just outside the kitchen, Scalpel squatted in a way that set his doughy stomach and restrained chest to motion, pale hands digging through the interior of the storage box. “Where is it... gotta be... here it is!!!”

With a sudden rising to full height and a little hop, Scalpel produced one of his notebooks overhead with a flourish, then flipped through it, every motion fast as a whip, her dark blue eyes never staying still for more than a second. “Aha! Here it is!! The illustration!” He turned the journal around to show Akilu something, but before she could get a good look, Scalpel had already brought it back around for himself, comparing it to the box, which he’d snapped at some point off the counter without Akilu seeing.

“They’re the same?” She certainly hoped they were. Unlike his older sister, Scalpel didn’t tend to ask much of Akilu, despite her job as their guide and assistant. They were paying her well for that work, and it would reflect poorly on her if she’d messed up something as simple as this.

“Indeed! Well, there’s some small differences, but considering the distance between here and Vedenar, that’s more likely due to small distinctions in local varieties than these being a completely different species.” The more Scalpel talked, the faster he talked, though for now he was remaining within the bounds of intelligibility. His round freckled cheeks could barely contain his excited grin, and the more he moved, the more his frizzy black hair went wild, stray locks falling far enough down to endanger impeding his vision.

Looking at the box in Akilu’s hands, she felt her heart start to beat faster, the excitement from Scalpel proving infectious. “What has you so eager about knobweed seeds? Their milk is medicine, but do you not have similar things where you are from?” Akilu knew by now that this sort of question was the exact thing that Scalpel wanted.

With an excited giggle that threatened to overtake Scalpel’s speech entirely, he started removing glass jars from his trunk and setting them on the counter. One had oil inside, another ointment, a third powder. “Anti-infection drugs are plentiful throughout the Cosmere, and knowing which are best for what ailment is vital for proper treatment!! Not to mention that some particular diseases become resistant to particular methods over time, so variety is a requirement, and if I can get knobweed to grow elsewhere?” His laugh came back, now almost a cackle, mania coming more fully into his voice and his dark blue eyes.

“It will be an incredible boon!!! Heeeheehee, now of course, of course, actually getting it to grow, now that will be an exciting challenge!!” Swaying in step as though to a beat only he could hear, Scalpel grinned at Akilu in a way that showed off every tooth in his mouth. It was just a little scary, but Akilu just felt glad to see Scalpel in better spirits.

“Other places, you see, don’t tend to have sheer rock everywhere, but more than that, ohhhh so much more than that, there’s the issue of hydration!!” Reaching over the counter to drum his fingers right beside where Akilu had placed her own hands, Scalpel tried to imitate the sound of rain with his digits. “Stormwater!!! One of the many fascinating elements so unique to Roshar, as best as I can tell it’s required to grow any of your native flora.

“So, how to leap this hurdle? Easy! Hand me that salt!!” Scalpel commanded it with a bedrock of absolute authority under his voice, and without even thinking, Akilu did exactly as asked, passing the eccentric woman the seasoning he had requested. Tilting the glass container this way and that to make the crystals inside shift, Scalpel’s grin spoke silently of triumph. “Just as you dissolve this sodium chloride into your cooking, I shall take crem with me, discover its chemical composition, and find a way to replicate stormwater offworld! With that done, knobweed will spread throughout the universe, all because of me!!!!”

Scalpel finished off this explanation by tossing the salt back to Akilu (she caught it, barely) and letting out a long, lingering laugh that rolled like clouds through the sky, rumbled like thunder, and crackled like lightning.

This time, Akilu did not fight the approach of the awespren. Oh gods, Akilu silently prayed, may my friend never turn his hands against the Peaks.

After putting away all he’d brought out of his explanation (during which Akilu tended the stew, and found it nearly ready to sit and simmer for hours without intervention), Scalpel entered the kitchen once more and gave Akilu a tight hug that was nearly painful in its strength, lifting her off the ground in the process. “Thank you,” he said softly, the mania starting to fade from his voice. “I needed that.”

Contradictions. Scalpel was soft, and unyielding. His gender and pronouns changed by the day, or the hour, and as today, they did not always align in a traditional way. More than anything, Scalpel was an amoral healer with a strong code of ethics only he could understand, a woman capable of terrifying things with a heart so big it was all too easy to bruise.

Before Akilu could respond to the embrace, still being held up so her feet didn’t touch the floor, another door in their dwelling opened suddenly, and Marionette walked out.

Looking at what Akilu and Scalpel were doing with a knife’s edge smile on her face, Marionette told them, “Whatever you’re both up to, it’ll have to wait.” Victory glinting in her dead eyes, Marionette held up her gloved safehand, a scrap of paper clutched between her fingers. “I found her.”

Vorinism was not beautiful.

Perhaps this was a rude thought, an opinion best left unsaid (though Akilu had heard her companions say far worse about the religion), no better than the aspersions cast upon her people’s faith by lowlanders.

Yet looking at the temple before them, one ascribed to the ‘Devotary of Mercy’, with its squat dome and confining walls, Akilu could not help herself. Watching the smooth-headed ardents moving this way and that, all of them as busy as chefs in a kitchen, passing grand statues of their Heralds (as though their worshippers needed a reminder of who they prayed to), made Akilu frown.

How can any feel close to their gods in such cramped buildings? Regardless of who one was to revere, Akilu was confident the practice was best done in concert with such gods’ creations, not divorced from them. Did they not believe their Almighty created this world so it may be appreciated?

Airsick, Akilu shook her head. That is the only explanation.

With a stomach full of good stew, Akilu followed behind Marionette on the offworlder’s left, Scalpel on her right, each ensuring they lagged a few steps when necessary.

She made for a striking figure, her pale skin contrasted against her ethereal black dress, which covered her from neck to ankle. Unlike a Vorin havah, however, there was no pinned sleeve, and Marionette had been forced to wear a glove on her left hand while out and about, for modesty’s sake. It was also less form-fitting than the local garments, the ‘lace’ material of the clothing hanging about her body in a way that almost seemed to make her float.

The hue paired well with her hair, just as black as Scalpel’s, though worn far longer, the texture less prone to kinks and curls. Her features were sharp rather than soft, yet still undeniably beautiful.

Prior obligations to the siblings had made it clear to Akilu that it was always best to leave Marionette to do the talking. Partially because, even when he hadn’t done anything disreputable, Scalpel had a talent for offending others that bordered on prescient, and partially because Akilu herself spoke passable Veden, but often had no clue how to properly convey what the siblings wanted to lowlanders.

There was also Marionette’s ability to inflame the emotions of others with a thought, but the other points were more relevant.

It didn’t take much talking to find the woman they’d been looking for.

(Akilu did not entirely understand why they needed to speak to this woman, as both siblings had made clear that it was unrelated to the investigation that brought them to Roshar. All they would say on the matter was ‘It’s personal’.)

Even without the proper nudging from the right ardents, it would have been easy to spot the one Marionette was after. Compared to many in this city, Akilu often felt like an oversized lummox, towering over those surrounding her. Yet, Scalpel was short even by lowlander standards, and yet even he was half a head taller than this mysterious ardent.

Standing at full height, this ardent barely rose up enough that the top of her head would come to Akilu’s mid-chest. Yet, she did not look childlike, instead carrying with her the mature lines around her eyes and mouth that spoke to a life already well-lived. It was difficult to tell under her robes, but she appeared to be a wide, stocky sort of woman, not quite fat or muscular in the ways Scalpel was, but hardy nonetheless.

As they approached, their quarry was speaking to a child, only needing to half-kneel to meet his eyes. “...do the voices say, hmm? Do they ask you to do things?” There was an accent to her voice that Akilu found difficult to identify.

“N-no,” the boy, who couldn’t have been older than five, shook his head in a way that sent his mop of shaggy brown hair standing up every which way, his bony hands twiddling as he looked down at them. “They just... I dunno. Don’t make sense.”

“That’s normal,” assured the ardent.

After mustering an astounding amount of courage, the boy looked up to meet her eyes. “They’re not... I-I’m not p-p-possessed?”

“If you are,” she assured him easily, “then they must be very polite Voidbringers, don’t you think?” When the boy gave a small smile and a shaky nod, the ardent ruffled his hair, making it even more unruly, and leaned in closer, to give a whisper Akilu was only privy to due to her proximity. “Other people might not understand, so... if you ever want to talk to someone about the voices again, find me.”

“Okay, Ardent Rosmar.” The boy pronounced the name oddly, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he was saying it right.

Before the ardent could correct him, the boy ran off, leaving her to stand up straight, pressing the palms of her hands into the small of her back as she did.

“It’s Rosemary, right?” Marionette asked, and despite the ardent giving no sign of having seen their approach, she didn’t jump in the slightest. “I’m Marionette, that’s Scalpel, and that’s Akilu.” She gestured with her safehand at each of them in turn. “We should talk.”

The ardent turned to them all, and Akilu was surprised to see the shape of her eyes. Like the siblings, there was a roundness to them that one normally only saw in the Shin, the space of them filled with large irises of a dark, ruddy maroon. Those eyes looked them all up and down, her expression unreadable, before gesturing with one hand to the nearest temple exit. “The garden?”

That was how the four of them found themselves in a shalebark garden, technically a part of the Conclave through which the king ruled this city, but close enough to the temple that it proved easy to walk to and relatively secluded this late in the day.

Rosemary and Marionette sat on a bench together, while Akilu stood opposite them with the younger sister, who was tapping a foot and twiddling her fingers, which were now covered in heavy white gloves in the same way her overalls were covered by a long white coat.

“How did you know?” were the first words out of Rosemary’s mouth, once they were all settled and the ardent had time to ponder properly. She spoke with an idle grace, a casual air that the topic didn’t detract from.

Marionette had an answer ready. “My assistant,” she pointed to Akilu, “got me records on arrivals, wherever you might show up in paperwork.” She gave a small chuckle. “Didn’t you know ‘rosemary’ doesn’t grow on this planet?”

“No, I did not. Shit.” Rosemary looked rather put out by that, but moved on to her next point rather smoothly. “Please tell me you aren’t here to try and take me back, because if I must be perfectly honest, I’d rather die a second time.”

Oh. So that’s why they sought her out.

Marionette waved a hand, the after-image only Akilu could see trailing the motion adding an extra amusing flippancy to the gesture, rolling her eyes before saying, “Yeah, noooooooo...” After sticking a finger down her throat and miming a gagging sound, Marionette made her feelings on the matter clear. “No offense, but I’d rather endure a sixteen minute conversation with Harmony himself than send anyone to Nalthis.”

His mania long since cooled down, Scalpel’s giggle was more friendly than frightening. “If we wanted an earful about our bad life choices, we’d just go home and tell Mom and Dad all the secret stuff we’ve been doing! Though, that might be worth it for a taste of Dad’s pie recipe...” This was the first time, and the last, Akilu ever heard either sibling mention their parents.

“Then why?” Rosemary asked, tilting her head.

With a sigh, Marionette reached over with her ungloved freehand and poked Rosemary on her smooth shaved head. Using a finger that, Akilu knew from experience, lacked any internal warmth. “Because, I need your help.” Folding both hands in her lap, Marionette’s voice lost that detached quality Akilu had gotten so used to, ringing instead with desperation. “You’re like me. You died, but you’re still here.”

Akilu had known that Marionette was dead, or had died, or whatever words best described her situation, since the day they’d met. It was difficult to make contact with the woman without that becoming clear, since it felt like touching a corpse.

They’d never spoken of it, as neither sibling had ever brought the topic up, and Akilu felt it would be the peak of rudeness to ask, ‘How did you die?’, or worse, ‘Why are you still walking around?’

Rosemary blinked, looking at Marionette in a new light, and began to mutter under her breath. “...like... not... Returned... how...” The diminutive priestess’s voice was quiet enough that Akilu could barely make out every third word.

“My handiwork!” Scalpel explained with a jerky wave. “Without getting into the gory details, my sister had a sudden organ failure, and while I am a very good surgeon, I wasn’t able to stop her from dying.” If Akilu hadn’t spent so much time with the woman, she would have missed the sober sadness in his eyes as he fessed up to what he’d done. “Still, I didn’t... the method was very different from yours, no Breaths involved, divine or otherwise, but I managed it, even if there were some... complications.”

“You did fine,” Marionette said, meeting her sister’s eyes as she delivered the statement as though it was an indisputable fact. “We’re just trying to know more, see if we can fix some of the side-effects.”

Side effects? Akilu thought, then considered the strange way she seemed to move, something only visible to those like Akilu herself, those whose eyes could pierce into the world of the gods.

Her gaze slid back to Rosemary, and as it did, Marionette was once again lax as a loose rope, her tone dripping with boredom. “So, yeah. We sorta, y’know, want to ask you a few things. Maybe let Scalpel take some samples, for science.” Just saying that word sent a shiver of delight through the younger sister, dispelling her earlier sadness. Then, just as a confident smirk slipped across her face, Marionette added, “That okay with you, Your Divine Whateverness?”

“No, no, no, none of that!” Rosemary suddenly sounded like a disapproving parent, and for a moment...

Any sign of age on her face disappeared, all without removing the sense of maturity they granted her. Her eyes glowed, and everything about her intensified. In one moment, Rosemary had been a short woman, and in the next, she’d been a short divinity.

...then the moment passed, and she was only an ardent again. Just in case, Akilu made a gesture of respect and reverence to her. One could never be too careful.

That got Rosemary to glare up at Akilu. “That means you too! Ohhh, now see here, I am not a goddess!” Her voice gained a shrill edge, and as she breathed in and out through her nose, her nostrils flared with warning. “I will not hear any of that Iridescent nonsense! By the Five Gods and the Voice Beyond, if you make even one more peep about such rubbish, I will choke you to death with your own clothes.”

“Understood.” Marionette gave Akilu and Scalpel serious looks. “You hear her? No worship, no goddess talk.” Her voice sounded as dead as the woman herself. Yet, as her eyes met Akilu’s, she saw victory there. Things were going according to her plan.

She would have to trust Marionette. “I do not understand, but I will do as you ask,” Akilu told her, regretting her gesture from before. “Please forgive my rudeness.” Rosemary gave a curt nod to her, which Akilu took as an acceptance of her apology, before turning to stare at Scalpel.

Diane shrugged his thick shoulders. “I’ve never worshiped anything before, I’m not gonna start now,” Diane told her, which seemed good enough for Rosemary.

“Good.” These promises given, Rosemary addressed Marionette, fury largely replaced with curiosity. “Now then, so long as you’re willing to abide by what I’ve asked, then I’d be happy to help you any way I can.”

“No fee? No favors?” Marionette asked, arching a fine eyebrow. Yet, she didn’t seem truly surprised. She had a feeling Rosemary would help without cost.

“I have no need of either.” Looking back towards the temple they’d found her in, Rosemary smiled softly. “While I hold no true love for their Almighty, I believe in the cause of the Devotary, and I’ve sworn to live without possessions, doing good works. If someone needs help, especially the kind few others seem capable of providing, then I’ll step in.”

With a serious nod and an offered hand, Marionette accepted the offer and said, “Thanks. I’d say your help is a life-saver, buuuuut...” which got a chuckle out of Rosemary, who shook the hand extended to her.

Contradictions. Marionette was elegant, and easy-going. Her very existence seemed to defy the order of the universe, of the gods, a fact which she seemed to regard with an annoyed side-eye and a rude gesture. More than anything, Marionette was an anti-social people-person, carrying herself with an attitude that told everyone she didn’t care all the while maneuvering others as though they were pieces on a board with her every word and gesture.

“Now then, what is it you need exactly?” the not-goddess ardent asked them.

The frizzy-haired surgeon began listing what they wanted, terms that Akilu didn’t recognize sitting comfortably between commonplace things like ‘exact body measurements’ and ‘daily rate of fecal evacuation’.

When he was done, Rosemary pursed her lips. “I’ll have to think on the vivisection, but I’ll agree to the rest of it, though I reserve the right to change my mind later.” Then she poked Marionette in the ribs through her black lace dress. “I do have to ask, if all you need are others like myself, why haven’t you gone to Nalthis yourself? T’Telir is full of Returned, you know.”

The siblings shared a look that Akilu could only read as dread. “We... sortaaaaaa aren’t allowed to go back there,” Marionette explained in her disaffected drawl.

When Scalpel saw Akilu looking in his direction, he winked.

Grinning impishly, Rosemary looked between the siblings. “Who could possibly ban you from a planet?”

Marionette said, “You don’t want to know.”

Scalpel said, “Endowment, or as you call her, the Voice Beyond.”

Before she could retire to her room, Akilu stopped Marionette with a hand on her shoulder. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” Marionette asked, a cocky grin pointed in Akilu’s face.

“What to say. Telling her of your death, this earned her sympathy. Teasing her about being a goddess, that pushed her to confrontation, to setting terms quickly.” She shook her head. “All of it was planned.”

Marionette snorted. “Not all of it. Maybe... like, half of it? Never plan what you can adjust in the moment, that’s my motto.”

“But was it intentional?” Akilu asked, and could read the answer in Marionette’s pale expression, in her sallow cheeks and her thin lips. “Then, I ask again... how? Is it your magic?”

“Ehhh...” Marionette raised a hand, tilting it back and forth from side to side. “Only indirectly.” Reaching into a hidden pocket of her floor-length dress, she removed a vial of liquid with something suspended at the bottom. “Okay if I...?” When Akilu nodded, Marionette downed the contents in a single gulp, and suddenly...

Oh. Oh gods high and low, big and small, majestic in your ways.

...all of Akilu’s suspicion, her worry, her mistrust, it was overwhelmed by sheer delight. A rush of euphoria hit Akilu so hard she had to rock back on her heels, and in seconds joyspren were on her, the cyclones of color manifesting for others as blue petals circling her.

Then, just as abruptly as it appeared, the emotion vanished, and the rare gods slunk off to other parts of the city.

“That wasn’t exactly subtle, right?” Marionette asked, and didn’t wait for an answer before she kept on talking. “Rioting doesn’t have to be like that, obviously, but even subtle nudges can feel wrong, if you’re amplifying something the person wasn’t feeling to begin with. Unless you want everyone to distrust everything you say, you have to use your Allomancy sparingly, refusing to burn your Zinc unless you’re sure it’ll go unnoticed, and... y’know. Actually make the person do what you want. That’s kinda the most important part”

“But did you use it? On the ardent?”

Slipping the vial back in her pocket, Marionette dismissed the idea. “Nope. Didn’t have to. But, I knew what to do because I’m a Rioter. A lifetime watching people, reading their faces, picking out what makes them tick, made me confident on the best way to handle the little baldy.” With a sudden yawn, Marionette stepped back, towards the door that led to her room. “That answer your question?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need to pass out into a pillow.” Walking backwards, Marionette held up a long, thin finger. “One last thing: Rosemary isn’t the only lead I found. While you were out, I got word on where our fleeing rat went.” Such unflattering terms were what Marionette had been using lately, to refer to the man who they’d hoped to interview in this city, only to find he had already left.

This was good news. Once Scalpel got everything he needed from Rosemary, they’d be able to set out for their next destination. “Where has he gone?”

“The Shattered Plains.”

The bottom fell out of Akilu’s stomach.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for there, the same as us,” Marionette told her, before retreating to her room.

It was hard for those words to take purchase in Akilu’s mind, as they felt slippery, insubstantial, compared to the solid and impossible fact of where they were to go next. With shaky feet. Akilu went to the ladder, climbing to the second floor of the dwelling where her room waited.

The tall Unkalaki woman passed her bed on the way to the window, where she sat on the floor, looking out to the ocean.

Contradictions. Akilu was dependable, and absent. Her sense of self shook with each revelation that came from her travels, yet never did it shatter, and she was beginning to think that rather than changing, she was only revealing more of who she always was. More than anything, Hualinam’lunanaki’akilu was a woman who loved her home, loved her family, and would leave both behind to find the truth others would so readily assume or ignore, to be of real use to those who relied on her.

(Without her meals, she was becoming sure the siblings would starve. Though, whether Marionette could starve, she did not know.)

“I will find you, Father,” Akilu whispered, tears in her eyes as she faced the breadth of the world. “Dead or alive. I will find you.”

And after she did that... well, that was for the Akilu of tomorrow to decide.

Chapter Text

Part 3 – Harmonizing

Nesh, Shallan, Hesina, Eshonai

-25-

Reunion

“If you're reading this, then you're already looking in the right places. By the grace and goodness of the One, if you even got a hold of this, it means you're asking the right questions.”

—Untitled Pamphlet by Unknown Author

With an ache in her back and a yawn on her lips, Hesina turned over in bed and found herself in the spot where her husband had been.

He couldn't have been awake long, not judging by how warm the bedding still felt on her skin, the way she’d slid into the dimple made from where he'd rested, and so Hesina allowed herself to simply stare up at the ceiling and ponder the day before her.

There's the laundry to get done, though Naln is going to have to handle his suits himself this time. The man was so touchy about his clothing, odd for someone darkeyed, and while Hesina wasn't about to disparage him for the strict preferences, she wasn't about to follow his arduous cleaning instructions again either. Almighty willing, Lirin won't see enough business that I’ll need to step in, which will leave me free to...

To... what? Rising from the bed with a stretch, Hesina ambled close to the shuttered window, listening through it to the sounds of the street below, the hustle and bustle of the warcamp, and found herself longing to lose herself in it. I could walk the streets, meet new people, see where my feet take me. Perhaps it was just longing for her youth, but it had been so long since Hesina had lived in a proper city.

A foolish wish. She could already hear Karusar's voice, telling her exactly what she thought of such an idea. “Oh sure. I spend all that time getting you here alive and well, and you're ready to throw it away.” Which isn't wrong, but still... The house arrest was getting to her.

“We have been here for two weeks!” Lirin exclaimed from the other room, loud enough to carry through the wooden door. His voice was touched by anger, but lingered in fatigue. It wouldn’t surprise her if he’d drawn brown jets of dust, exhaustionspren, considering the way he was throwing himself into his work as of late.

Turning her attention to getting dressed for the day, Hesina kept an ear open to follow the conversation as she went.

As she'd expected, it was a voice as sweet as women's food that answered. “Citizen Lirin, I understand you're frustrated. You have every right to be. But at present I’ve done all I can.” Somehow, the woman's words walked the thin line between sounding genuine and well-practiced. It must come from her training.

The bedroom they'd allocated to Lirin, Hesina, and their son wasn't quite the same size as the one they'd left behind in Hearthstone, but it was remarkably close. Their bed was soft, comfortable, and barely wide enough to hold two people at once; Oroden had his own cot and space to toddle around; and they had furniture with enough storage to hold every article of clothing Hesina and her husband owned, plus room for more.

Already, some of those empty drawers had begun to fill themselves, thanks to rare outings in the warcamps market, arm in arm with a charmingly grumpy mercenary.

The residence still felt like a waystop, but it was growing more familiar by the day.

“We left behind our home, our people, our life, all because you said we were in danger.” Even as Hesina was pulling on her skirt and reaching for a comfortable, loose-fitting blouse, she could imagine her husband's expression. Pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, making a performance of his strife. “And we followed. Because you said, at the end of the road, our s... Kaladin would be waiting for us.”

“To be fair,” Hesina said as she entered the room, and found her husband's fingers massaging the spot between his eyes, “that wasn't Nesh. We can't hold her to Danahui's promises.”

Despite it being so early that he'd yet to even eat, Lirin was already prepared for whatever work came to him that day, dressed in his new and pristine white surgeon's smock. It had been a gift from Nesh a day into their stay, one Lirin appreciated more than he’d found the words to share.

There was a knife in Lirin’s hand, as well as a fruit on the cutting board that he was mincing apart, no doubt for their sleeping son to eat once he woke. Hesina had started burning glyphwards of thanks to the Almighty when Oroden weaned off her milk earlier than either of her first sons... no, either of her first children had.

The common room of their dwelling was apparently of a style that was becoming more the norm in cosmopolitan Alethi cities; at once a sitting room and a place to eat. It was well equipped with a small variety of cooking tools, from cutting boards to specialized fabrials suited to simmering stews. There was plenty of furniture for people to lounge about on, more than was needed just for the building’s occupants. A shared home, a retreat from the frenetic pace of what lay outside its confines.

Along one wall was a set of steps that led to the ground level, where Lirin's new surgery space awaited him, while beside the bedroom Hesina had just emerged from, there were several other dwellings for those they shared the space with.

Turning her bright yellow eyes towards Hesina, Nesh inclined her head respectfully, even as she disagreed with her. “If there is blame to be shared, then in this, my sisters and I bear it together.” Refocusing that unflappable gaze on Lirin once more, she explained, “None of us could have seen this coming. I'm doing my best to learn what I can, but as I've told you before, Kaladin seems to have volunteered for some sort of mission outside the warcamps mere days before we arrived. Until the situation changes, we will need to be patient.”

Like Lirin, Nesh was already dressed for her occupation. Adorned from neck to sole in black and white, Nesh wore the attire of a master-servant well. From the polished boots to the straight legged trousers to the buttoned vest, all in the same shade of black, Nesh looked perfectly at home in the neat clothing, especially with her bright red hair bound up in a simple bun.

The only things that set her apart from a typical member of that highest echelon of service were the vest, as normally a master-servant only had a white high-collared shirt that buttoned up the sides, and the hue of her eyes.

“A mission doing what?” Lirin asked, for perhaps the tenth time since they'd arrived.

With a patience that Hesina envied, Nesh said, tone level, “I don't know. Until my employer arrives, the avenues I have available to pursue this mystery are limited. Believe me, if there was anything I could do to hasten your reunion, I would drop my other tasks and ensure it done.” The pleading in her tone, that sheen to her eyes, truly made it sound as though she meant it.

Perhaps it was uncalled for suspicion, but Hesina wasn't entirely sure such a performance was indicative of Nesh's honesty.

Still, it did the job of taking the wind out of Lirin's stormwall. He set aside his knife, walking to a basin of water to begin washing his hands of the juices staining his skin purple, and as he shuffled along, his shoulders began to slump. “What sort of mission could they have her doing? She's a surgeon, not a soldier.”

The barest tensing of a muscle in Nesh's forehead, moving a red eyebrow and the bronze skin beneath it by the smallest of degrees, made Hesina think she was curious.

Oh, Lirin... Of course this was still eating away at him. Ever since their daughter had admitted to him, years ago, about a set-aside dream of running off to the army, ever since she'd almost volunteered to join Tien, only stopped by good sense and a plea from both her parents, Lirin had been haunted by the specter of their firstborn child learning to fight, to kill.

It didn't scare Hesina the way it did him, but she knew how dangerous war could be, and she'd burned more gylphwards in thanks than she could count for the fortune bestowed upon them by the Almighty. In her eyes, Kaladin learning to kill was the same thing as her learning to die.

For nine days now, she'd been telling herself that Kaladin would be fine, that any day she would return and they could both see the woman who had been buried in a shell, out of sight until she'd bloomed off in distant Kharbranth without them.

It was better than believing that a second child would die fighting in some fruitless conflict.

Suddenly, the door on the floor below opened, and after a few tense seconds, a stuttering voice called out. “L-l-lirin! We've got, um, carpenter, and th-there's...” and then whatever else he'd been saying fell away, as Nomon mumbled too quietly to carry. After a few seconds, they managed to continue. “...chest pains, trouble breathing, a-a-a-and numbness in the f-f-fingers!”

Lirin was already moving towards the steps, his eyes finding Hesina's in a moment of silent understanding. If he needed her, he'd call for her.

Naln had initially offered to assist in surgery as well, though it was soon clear the work was too blood-intensive for his constitution. Strangely, the timid member of the Moon system, Nomon, seemed a far better fit, and would likely be helping throughout the day, unless they suddenly set. Mishim, by contrast, was too flighty and had trouble staying still.

Hesina set to getting Oroden's breakfast ready before handling her own, settling for a simple meal of bread and jam.

“Would you like any help with that?” Nesh offered, joining Hesina on the other side of the counter.

“I think I can handle this on my own, but thank you for the offer, Brightness.” Using the title earned the barest hint of a frown from Nesh. It was not nearly so satisfying as teasing Karusar, but certainly an accomplishment considering the master-servant's normally inexhaustible supply of cheer. “What are the plans for today?”

“More of the same.”

The non-answer prickled at Hesina's curiosity, but she'd learned already that attempting to satisfy it at the source, to dig until she found out exactly what Nesh did each day, would be as fruitful as trying to paint a mural on the stormside of a wall.

Instead, she aimed elsewhere. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Oh, Citizen Hesina,” Nesh replied, a giggle tracing the edge of her words, “of course you may.”

“Are you truly a master-servant?” She took a bite of her bread, and gestured with the jam-slathered remainder towards Nesh's pinned white sleeve covering her left hand. “I've met people in that line of work before, but they were always darkeyed, always just wore a glove. The vest too, that's not standard.”

Falling out of her normally too-perfect posture with a relaxed fluidity, Nesh leaned her hips against the counter, her smile shifting until it made those familiar lips look new in their saccharine secrets. “They are standard, but only for lighteyed master-servants. The vest marks us from afar, states clearly our status so as not to mix us up with our darkeyed peers, and the sleeve... well, even as a servant, my ‘modesty’ must be preserved.” It could have just been her imagination, but Hesina swore Nesh spoke of this need for a safehand sleeve with a liberal dose of mockery.

That, Hesina could understand to some extent. How exactly her mother had managed to go about in a sleeve rather than a simple glove, she would never understand. “You're sticking to your story, then?”

“I'll do more than stick to it: I'll elaborate.” With a wistful expression, Nesh looked up towards the ceiling, her gaze tracing the lines in the carved stone as though she could see a map there no one else could. “Disregarding the times I stepped in to handle work in the mercenary company that Karusar found socially challenging, I first earned my own employment at sixteen, to a local lord in Yulay,. It was a small estate, and proved an excellent place to practice the basics of service. From him, I was traded from one noble to another, until ending up in the employ of a brightlady traveling back to her homeland in Jah Keved.

“Not long after arriving, I was recommended towards full master-servant training, an opportunity I leapt at.” Then, turning to the cupboard where they kept various foodstuffs, Nesh began working as she talked, peeling and then removing the seeds from a ripe crispmelon. The work required both hands, and without an ounce of shame, she unpinned and slipped off her sleeve, revealing her unadorned fingers so she could put them to the task before her.

With a warmth reaching her cheeks, Hesina considered the sight. She has more in common with Karusar than I thought. There's that need to be... productive, to be doing something.

“Over my years, I served a number of homes with honor, either as a member of the household staff or as a personal servant to the brightladies who employed me.” The detail that, by this point in the tale, Nesh spoke only of women employing her, did not surprise Hesina in the least. That remained consistent with the Sisters, if nothing else did. “I was lucky, if I'm being honest. The few other lighteyed master-servants I've met were all trained in Vorin lands, and because of that, their education was less... hands-on, I suppose, than mine was?”

Hesina finished off her morning snack, waiting until she'd swallowed before commenting, “You prefer getting your hands dirty?”

The Veden woman pursed her lips, considering the question as she carefully removed the spherical seeds from the fruit. “I'm not sure I'd say 'prefer', but... there's something rewarding to it.” Finally finished with her task, Nesh set to washing her hands as Lirin had before, then pinning her sleeve in place again, before enjoying the fruit of her labor.

“I understand, to some extent.” Hesina walked closer, reaching out and snatching a piece of the crispmelon before Nesh could get to it, popping it in her mouth and watching as Nesh ignored the theft. “I rarely had to work back in Hearthstone, but I often did anyway, simply for the satisfaction.” This overview left out the lean years, the times when such work was not only necessary, but had barely been enough to save their plan of spending the stolen spheres.

It also was, she was sure, a contributing factor to the aches she'd begun developing with each passing year. Father always told me too much hard work would make me a bent-back crone by my fortieth Weeping. Even so, she cherished the choice, as it had been hers to make.

“The way you talk about it,” Hesina noted while Nesh ate, the woman only taking small bites so that no mess was left behind on her face, “it sounds like you haven't done this work in a while. Did you need to set it aside because of... another of your sisters?”

The question brought not the shyness Hesina expected, but a beaming smile, though one that nonetheless didn't bare back the lips to reveal any of her teeth. They truly are all so different... I wonder how the fourth sister smiles. “Exactly correct. You see, I had just made it through a difficult time, relationship troubles I'd prefer not to speak of in detail, when I found myself working for someone new. It was she that—”

The front door was thrown open once more, and the sound of footfall moving quickly up the stairs told them where the person was heading.

“Nesh!” exclaimed the woman, a stranger to Hesina, with golden hair that marked her as being from Iri. She was panting, gasping for air, bent over just before the entrance to the second floor with her hands on her knees. “She's... here...”

“The princess?” Nesh's voice was hushed, a whisper, her eyes wide, her composure broken.

The woman nodded energetically, then pointed back down the stairs. “Got word... someone saw her... in the warcamps... soon... maybe now...” Then, stumbling forward, she fell into a chair at the dining table. “I'm gonna... rest here...”

Hesina expected a word of comfort, or perhaps an offer of water to her friend, out of the master-servant.

Instead, Nesh's forehead furrowed, her face locked in an expression of focus. Concentrationspren, ripples in the air like raindrops in a lake, surrounded her head. “Can't catch up with her, don't know... where is she going to go first?” Then, with a curt nod, Nesh gave Hesina a brief apologetic wince. “Apologies, but I must be off. Please, don't wait for me at dinner this evening, I have no idea when I will be able to return.” Then she was off, down the steps, towards a destination, towards a princess, and all with Hesina none the wiser for what was happening.

After a few seconds spent pondering what had just happened, she looked to the Iriali woman. “Hello there. I’m Hesina.”

“Inne...”

“Crispmelon?”

“Thank the One, yes!”

The warcamps of the Shattered Plains were unlike anything Shallan had ever seen.

Considering her limited pool of reference, raised on a remote estate and only previously experiencing urban life through Kharbranth, perhaps any city Shallan found herself in would have been seen as strange.

Wait, no, I... Shallan blinked, eyes unfocusing from the sights she’d been intent on. That isn’t right, we stopped at New Natanan, didn’t we? And yet, Shallan’s memories of the place were vague, fuzzy, incomplete. Fragments of a dock, a street, an inn, the colors smeared, the details jumbled.

The realization sent a sickening twist through her guts, and so Shallan put the thoughts away.

Built inside massive craters, natural barriers against the storms, the warcamps had been built for the conflict against the Parshendi. Not simply in the sense that the majority of the buildings contained therein were barracks or... other sorts of army-related buildings for which Shallan did not know the proper terms. No, the purpose of the city was evident in the strict layout, the regular repeating patterns of streets and alleys that had Shallan’s spren humming happily on the wall above her head.

It would be interesting to look into the exact layout of the Kholin princedom’s warcamp, to tease out the reasons that pushed the initial construction to take the path it did, but this was only a mild curiosity, the dim light of Salas compared to the brilliant Nomon of her true passion.

People.

The sheer cosmopolitan diversity she’d found on the streets of Kharbranth was not what she beheld on the Shattered Plains, but that made the sight from the carriage window no less exciting. Darkeyed spearmen and lighteyed officers and foreign merchants and camp followers, all milling about together.

On the whole, it was more homogenous than the sights she’d begun to acclimate to in Kharbranth, and yet as her eyes moved from one passing person to the next, Shallan found herself eager to take Memories, to study specific people, to fill her sketchbook with as many faces as she could find the time to splatter onto its pages with ink and charcoal.

“Someone’s happy to be off the road,” Adolin teased her. They followed up the comment with a yawn, then leaned close so their blonde hair, speckled with black, filled Shallan’s peripheral vision. That had been getting noticeably long as of late, and Shallan wondered what others may say about it.

Gaze flicking from the window to the person sitting next to her, Shallan’s cheeks flushed as she considered there would likely be much else for people to discuss when it came to the returning prince.

The dalewillow root they’d been chewing couldn’t have worked fast enough to truly soften the curve of their chin, nor to fill out the blue-and-gold Liaforan suit they wore, but Shallan swore she saw those signs just the same. There was undeniably something different to the way Adolin sat there, a comforting smile tugging the edges of their lips upward, those bright blue eyes so open with whatever emotion they felt in the moment, from the Adolin she’d first met in a hospital bed.

Without thinking, Shallan leaned in, kissing Adolin on the cheek. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re still on a road.” Then, seconds after the teasing quip left her lips, Shallan blinked and began to realize what she’d just done.

Adolin didn’t seem nearly as shocked, only arching an eyebrow as they asked, “I think we should talk to Kaladin before we do more than that.” When Shallan gave a shaky nod as a reply, Adolin leaned in closer, giving a small gasp of pain from the way the motion shifted their legs, their gray and dead arm swaying behind them, all so they could whisper, “But I do want to revisit that topic, when we can.”

“Yes, but another time,” came Jasnah’s voice, and suddenly the swarm of cremlings buzzing about in Shallan’s chest sank to her stomach, pulled into the crem of her growing embarrassment.

The princess was wearing one of her immaculate havahs, her make-up even more pristine than it had been during their travel through the Frostlands, clearly ready to confront the new defacto political capital at her very best.

For a moment, a different image of Jasnah came to mind, one both sharp as a sword and yet as hazy as a chilly winter morning: in the dark, her mentor cutting through man after man with her Blade, leaving their eyes to burn out of their skull as their dead bodies collapsed to the stone. With it came the feeling of her own Blade, of Pattern, clenched in a white-knuckled fist, and doing what had to be done.

It’s okay, came a whispered voice, hard as steel, you aren’t that person. Words Adolin had used to comfort her, and that she’d come to rely on to make it through each episode when the night with the bandits returned to the forefront of her mind.

When Shallan came back to the conversation happening around her, Jasnah was rebutting something Adolin had told her. “...I will judge his state of mind myself.”

Pouting in a way that made them look too gorgeous for words, Adolin shook their head, hair bouncing this way and that from the gesture. “I’m telling you, Jasnah, the years haven’t been kind to him. We can’t be sure Elhokar will trust us.” They sounded aggrieved about it, but there was something firm in Adolin’s tone that made Shallan wonder where the bedrock of that belief came from.

“Even if he doesn’t, my mother will be present as well. While that is not necessarily—” Before Jasnah could finish her thought, the carriage rolled to a gentle stop, and outside the window was no longer the warcamp Shallan had wistfully gazed at before, but a palace.

Lacking the majesty of the Conclave, there was something to the sharp angles and sloping steps up to the hollowed out hill that was very distinctly Alethi. Perhaps the royal palace was not beautiful in any traditional sense, but it was eminently practical, grand in a brutish sense, carved for the sake of pursuing vengeance.

Looking to the task before them, Shallan felt her shoulders square, her chin lift up, her posture tighten. Hands clasped in her lap, she put aside her sketchbook in her satchel. This was not the time to be a scholar.

No matter what was to happen next, she would keep Adolin safe. As a Radiant, as a Surgebinder, she had promised it to a woman she ached for, and nothing would make her go back on such a vow.

Setting aside the topic of who to trust and to what extent, the three of them left the carriage, Shallan staying close by Adolin’s side in case they needed her support, Pattern riding on the back of her green havah. In the time since the ghastly procedure that had left their legs to reknit themselves properly, Adolin’s mobility had improved, but their endurance remained far below what they were once capable of. Their frustration was naked, a raw nerve, and yet they put a smile on it, for Shallan’s sake.

It was kind, though at the moment, Shallan did not feel as though she particularly needed such a courtesy.

Their luggage had been sent ahead to the palace, along with word of their arrival, during their brief stop in the Kholin warcamp crater, which left them to mount the climb themselves towards the entrance. Adolin had insisted, wanting to at least try to walk rather than use a palanquin.

None of them said a word. As was so often the case as of late, when turning her attention to more serious matters, Shallan’s usual talkativeness dried up into a steady silence that matched Jasnah’s. Perhaps Adolin would have filled it, if they weren’t so preoccupied with their steps. Shallan half-expected her mentor’s patience to fail her on the long climb, slowed by her cousin’s sapped constitution, but if she was truly able to read anything in the looks she gave towards Adolin as she waited for them to catch up, all she found was worry.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the doors, and while officers and servants went to and fro, many giving passing acknowledgements to Jasnah and her retinue, only one person was there waiting for them.

She was a tall woman, easily matching Jasnah’s eye level, if not exceeding it, with hair as brilliantly red as Shallan’s yet a skin tone that was quite a bit darker. Not quite the warm tan of Jasnah or Adolin, instead an almost coppery hue, of the sort that often cropped up in Jah Keved but was more at home among the Horneaters from the Peaks.

The woman was a master-servant, a rare lighteyed tenner in the role judging by the vest, and as the three of them approached, she dipped into a low bow. “Brightness, welcome. It is a delight to see you.”

As was to be expected, considering her profession, the woman’s every movement was precise, dignified, ready to carry out an order at a moment’s notice. Strangely, Shallan found herself envious of such cultivated devotion.

More frustrating was the strange twinge of jealousy that twitched through Shallan as she saw Jasnah smile with a warmth that felt nearly familial. The princess stopped a few paces before the stranger and looked her over with a discriminating eye. “You’ve arrived. Excellent. How are your charges?”

“Safe, for the moment,” the master-servant explained. Her voice was only touched by a Veden accent on the edges of her words, and Shallan couldn’t discern even an ounce of Horneater to it. “However, I cannot say how long that will last. There were several hostile encounters on the way here, and while my sisters handled them as best they could, for the moment we have been hoping to cover their presence in the warcamps until a reunion with their daughter can be arranged.”

To Shallan’s surprise, Adolin put it together before she did. “You’re the one who brought Kaladin’s parents here?” Once it was said, Shallan felt a distant pang of foolishness for not realizing it sooner.

“How long have you been here? Should they not have met by now?” Jasnah asked, voice flat.

“It’s been nearly two weeks.” Inclining her head once more, the woman’s tone bled sorrow like an open wound, yet no spren were drawn to the emotions she displayed. “Citizen Kaladin was not here when we arrived.”

Hands clenching tight enough that pain shot through Shallan’s fingers, Pattern buzzing on her back, she hissed out, “Where is she? Where is Kaladin?”

Turning her attention on Shallan for the first time, the woman’s sympathy could be read in every line of her pained expression. “I have no idea, Brightness. If all goes well, we can find that out together.” Then she gave what must have been a comforting smile in Shallan and Adolin’s direction.

Shallan couldn’t feel it. The time to set aside the duty Kaladin had thrust upon her had not come.

“Who is she?” Elhokar asked once they were alone.

Well, for some definition of ‘alone’.

The private chambers of the king held the monarch himself, his mother, his sister, his cousin, Shallan, and the woman who had been waiting for them.

With thick carpet and soft furniture and hanging tapestries, even a balcony on one wall facing the Plains, the room was richly appointed, a spot of civilized comforts in a largely cold and inhospitable environ.

The king still wore his simple crown, even as he set aside the more extravagant articles of his outfit to await his next departure to where others under his rule could see him. Perhaps some would name him a handsome man, or a regal one, but Shallan could only see the shadows he stood in, cast by those who loved him most.

Yellow eyes beseeched an answer from Jasnah without the question having to be spoken, and the princess complied. “You may speak,” she told the master-servant, and with that pronouncement came a wince from Adolin.

They’re worried about how Elhokar will take such forceful statements, Shallan thought, chewing over the idea and finding it made her fret, in whatever way she was capable of with her emotions so... subdued. Adolin remembers him as being jealous to the point of irrationality towards any who would speak over him.

And yet... Elhokar didn’t say a word, instead still fixing his narrowed eyes on the woman in black-and-white.

“I am known as Nesh, Your Majesty. I’ve served your sister before, and at present she has bade me to turn my attention towards several small tasks, such as the protection of surgeon Kaladin’s mother and father, investigating the present political situation in the Shattered Plains, and fulfilling a few other duties worthy of little notice.” The words glided from her tongue, honeyed and dressed in silk, and Shallan watched as Elhokar swallowed them all with only a nod. Does he believe her?

Do I?

“Yes... I remember you,” Navani said, though a slight hesitation to the widowed Queen’s words made Shallan sure that any memories she may have had of Nesh were cloudy at best. It made sense. Servants tended to come and go as required.

Where Elhokar looked ready to fall apart at any moment, Navani had the same indomitable arc to her back that Shallan saw so often in her daughter. The edges were softer, the wrinkles and gray in her hair a mark of what toll time had taken, and yet Navani Kholin was still a beauty, still a force to be reckoned with. Would Jasnah be like that, in her advanced years?

At the behest of the man wearing the crown, Nesh began to explain what she’d discovered, though Shallan had trouble keeping track of the details. Evidently, several highprinces had already abandoned the Vengeance Pact, fleeing back to their lands in Alethkar in fear of what Sadeas would do next after his decimation of the Kholin army.

All were bracing for the collapse of the kingdom, of a return to the days of highprinces warring amongst themselves, and evidently, Nesh had learned details of exact timetables for the retreats of more of these powerful men, Hatham and Thanadal and Bethab, along with their forces, all of which was news to the king and his mother.

How exactly such a retreat could be allowed, how even a nominal ruler such as Elhokar could stand by while this happened, Shallan did not entirely understand.

While Shallan sat beside Adolin on a comfortable couch, watching as their eyes fluttered, then closed completely, Shallan lost herself in thought. They were so glad to see their aunt, their cousin, yet they said nothing of their personal discoveries to either of them.

Frowning, Shallan shook her head, and for a moment it felt like she was waking up for a walking dream. They’re simply exhausted from the travel. Adolin will tell them, when they’re ready to. Regardless, it wasn’t any business of hers. It was Adolin’s life, let them live it how they preferred.

No, and suddenly the smothering blanket pushed down her emotions, leaving her stoic and numb as she looked down at the floor, it is my business. Kaladin is off, attempting to rescue the Blackthorn himself. Until she returns, I must keep Adolin safe.

“Good afternoon, Brightness,” came a soft voice, and Shallan looked up to find the master-servant, Nesh, was smiling demurely down at her. “It was Shallan Davar, correct?”

“It is,” Shallan confirmed, terror gripping her skittering heart tightly as she struggled to keep her breathing under control. Does she know my family?

Just thinking of them made Shallan want to stand, to pace, to rip her hair out. Whoever it had been that Jasnah had sent after Shallan’s brothers had either lost their spanreed or was dead in the civil conflict overtaking Jah Keved. My homeland is becoming a warzone. There was a good chance she would never see any of them alive, ever again.

“It’s good to see you again, though I wish our reunion came at a less trying time,” Nesh said, a bittersweet edge to her words, a sad smile on her lips.

Shallan blinked. “I’m sorry, but, reunion?” She had no memory of this woman.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Brightness. A story for another time.” Sleeved safehand held behind her back, Nesh gave a gentle bow, not nearly as deep as the one she’d given to Jasnah, and explained, “As you are new to the court, and Brightness Jasnah herself will be occupied for some time with assisting the king in matters of state, I have been assigned as your personal attendant. I trust you will use my services wisely.”

“I’ll do my best.” Yet even as those words left Shallan’s mouth, even as she found herself relishing having someone’s help with this new environment, a bitter fire burned hot in her breast, surprising in its intensity. Wordless, it balked at further formalities, further restraints.

Confused, Shallan shoved those feelings down, pulling out her sketchpad as Nesh retreated to elsewhere in the room. Perhaps it would have been more prudent, more respectable, to focus her attention on the words being shared between the Kholin’s, but Shallan couldn’t bring herself to care.

Instead, she began to reproduce a Memory she’d taken just as they’d crested the ridge of the Kholin warcamp, of the bustling community laid out before her.

Losing herself in the simple joy of pencil on paper, Shallan attracted creationspren, and listened to the sound of Adolin snoring.

Chapter Text

-26-

People Like Us

SIX YEARS AGO

With a measured pace and a sure step, Nesh ascended the stairs to the kitchen.

Once upon a time, the uniform she wore, all well-starched whites and perfectly pressed blacks, had felt confining. After years spent on the edge of civilization, it had felt as though she was being caged once more within the bounds of high society.

Such feelings had long since ebbed away.

Now, the nineteen year-old wore her uniform with pride. While she was just as tall, and nearly as bulky, as she’d been three years ago when she’d first taken the path of service, Nesh’s tailored uniform of black-and-white made that height look sleek, prim, demure. Paired with her hair, its shoulder length red locks tied up into a simple bun, these clothes presented Nesh to the world as she wished to be seen.

“...and with his mighty hammer, the blow came crashing down,” came the half-mumbled, half-gurgled voice from up the stairs, accompanied by the occasional harmony of clattering cookware that came with a chef at work. “The beast he... oh! Nesh! Blood and sweat of the Heralds, you’re early!”

The woman hard at work dicing tubers, boiling water, and cleaning cremling was barely tall enough to be seen from the doorway, a task made only slightly easier by the verticality of her black, braided hair, tied up taller and thicker than Nesh’s bun. Squat and soft in build, Hala was old enough to be Nesh’s mother and skilled enough to cook for their small household without assistance.

Hala’s attention was ever on her tasks, never slipping to look towards Nesh herself, and yet even as she bustled around her workspace, there was a sense that she didn’t miss a single detail of what was going on around her.

“My day has moved with unexpected swiftness. How is dinner coming along?” Her tone was polite, inquisitive, but not overly familiar.

Such a professional voice earned a snort from the chef. “You and that silly training. Don’t just stand there in the doorway, come in, come in, and stop speaking as though you’re being graded on it!” Nesh, of course, did as she was asked, stepping into the small kitchen and approaching the counter. Just looking at the ingredients, she had an idea of what was being made, but Hala explained it anyway. “Dinner will be good enough to swallow, as always. Sweet curry, boiled tallew, skrip for meat.”

Leaning close, her sleeved safehand tracing a line on the wooden countertop with her index finger, Nesh tried to fight down a sudden swell of panic. “Skrip?” A type of cremling often used for meat, but more common among the lower classes.

Nesh herself has survived off it for years, though... no, that was not Nesh. That was a different girl, a rougher, less cultured creature.

And yet, the thought of a mess hall filled with armed soldiers made low notes of nostalgia hum through her mind, like calloused fingers plucking well-tuned strings.

“Yes, skrip! What, you were expecting pork? Chicken?” Hala tutted. “If the Brightlady is wanting those things, she had better well pay for it.”

“I’m sure we have some left,” Nesh pushed, though even as she did, the picture of what Hala meant started to come together. “But... oh dear, we’re hosting Brightlord Seveks in a few days, then we have that salon the day after...” Brown jets of dust stirred to life around Nesh, exhaustionspren revealing how the very idea of those upcoming events made her feel. With an effort, she worked to smooth over the emotions, and with them, send away the spren.

It was considered unseemly for a master-servant to draw the attention of emotion spren.

Clicking her tongue with approval at the way Nesh had put that together, Hala took a break from stirring her boiling pot to gesture towards Nesh with her spoon. “See! You are the proof!”

“The proof of what?”

“That there are lighteyes with brains inside their skulls! Sometimes, I’m not sure the others have a mark of common sense between them!” That got Hala chortling, and no matter how rude the joke, Nesh couldn’t help joining her with a more refined giggle of her own.

Still, the moment of levity could only last so long before Nesh had to return to the matter at hand. “Skrip it will have to be, then. Still, Brightness Tanalata won’t be fond of the choice, so be certain to make the curry extra sweet.” By the good grace of the mafah’liki, it’ll keep her in a good mood.

“If you say so, Nesh,” Hala said, already moving to adjust her plans for the meal, “but you know, I don’t think it would kill our brightlady to be disappointed now and then.”

Intellectually, Nesh knew that Hala was right. Their employer lived a life of relative luxury, she had a staff of ten to see to all her possible needs.

And yet...

I hate to see her unhappy. The very thought of the mood that could ensue after a dissatisfying meal, of the precise dip in her lips as she pouted, of the way Tana would cross her arms in indignation, made Nesh’s stomach clench in sympathetic pain.

But rather than argue that point, rather than speak up in their lady’s defense and risk saying too much, Nesh instead asked Hala, “How is your son’s apprenticeship coming along? Last I heard, he was getting an earful for... what was it, again?” This earned her near an hour of tales, until finally Nesh felt free to give her goodbyes, cross over to the stairs, and rise another level, leaving the kitchen and its mistress behind.

Their residence was but one partition of a tall building, a fashionable place to stay for lighteyes not local to the city and unable to afford a private villa.

Five floors, each as large as the home of an average darkeyes, stacked atop one another with stairs running up on one end, leading to a new floor with another set of stairs at the far end. The higher one went, the more lavish the rooms, until at the top, the residence of the brightlady had a door to a common space for others of her station staying in the building.

Nesh had barely reached the fourth floor when she felt her gaze drawn to a nearby window, and the view it offered of the city. Her soft-soled shoes padded over the carpet, making barely a sound, until she was directly before the glass, able to look out over the view.

The Windblades, grand features of gorgeously colored stones.

The city walls, high and proud, protecting the city from outside incursion.

The thickly settled city streets, heavily trafficked, busy as could be in this early afternoon.

Kholinar was a far cry from where Nesh had started, off in the west, serving the sort that ruled those lands. In some ways, the city felt achingly familiar, and in many more, it felt dreadfully new.

Once again, a sleeve was required at all times, considering her station. Once again, she was seen for her eyes first and her lack of a proper name second. The virtues of her character? A distant third. Once again, people were growing close, settling in, and... Nesh cherished it.

This time, she wouldn’t make any mistakes. This life wouldn’t be thrown away.

“Nesh!” hissed a terrified voice, and from a side room a girl only a few years Nesh’s junior nearly sprinted towards the master-servant. “I, I, I—”

Putting her freehand gently on the girl’s shoulder, Nesh pointedly inhaled long and slow through her mouth, watching as the younger servant followed along, then just as slowly let out the breath. “Kali, it’s okay. Take a moment. Then, only when you’re ready, talk.”

The second-tallest of the household, just a handspan shorter than Nesh, Kali gripped the sides of her skirt tightly, continuing to breathe at the pace Nesh had shown her, until finally she looked less likely to suddenly faint. “I found something I shouldn’t have.” A few curly strands of black hair fell in front of her narrow face as she looked down, unable to meet Nesh’s eyes.

Oh. Oh dear. This could be serious. “Show me.”

Together, they left the fourth floor hallway, well adorned with a plush rug and adorned on the walls with Heraldic paintings, to one of the guest rooms that lay between the sets of stairs on either end.

These small but richly appointed rooms were there for any of Tana’s guests from out of the city, with plush beds and large wardrobes occupying much of the limited floor space. The one Kali led her to looked nearly pristine, the girl had done well in her tidying, but then she knelt down, lifted the bedding, and gestured with her gloved hand to the offending item.

Nesh went stock still.

Lying there, between the sheets and the blanket, was a particular article of clothing. A racy, filmy, debauched article of clothing.

While Nesh tried to think, she did her best to ignore the music only she could hear.

It often came in moments of stress, a mix of strings whether plucked or bowed, an oddity that was best left ignored. Even when it sounded encouraging, or as though it was eager to push her towards a more favorable outcome, Nesh would prefer to go without such advice, rather than accept help from her own madness.

Finally, she turned to Kali, who was trembling in place, thick purple globs of fearspren wiggling around her feet. “It’s going to be okay.” Nesh believed the words, but more importantly, she made sure to say them in a way that emphasized their truthfulness. “I will handle this. Continue about your day, and—”

“What is this?” came a voice from behind, from the doorway, and Nesh couldn’t help but notice Kali tensed at the same time as her. A universal reaction, when a servant was surprised by their employer.

For an Alethi woman, Tana lacked the trademark height many expected of her people, only standing tall enough to put her eyes level with the top button of Nesh’s vest. Perhaps to make up for this, Tana always kept on the cutting edge of fashion, wearing the finest havahs she could afford and wearing her flowing trellises of black hair in a stunning braid that incorporated half a dozen gemstones.

Even as Kali remained facing the bed, knees bent, terrified to move, Nesh’s training helped her react without input from her emotions. Rising in a fluid sweep that saw her turn to face Brightlady Tanalata, her sleeved safehand hidden behind her back while her right arm was fixed at an equally horizontal angle just before her vest, Nesh spoke with precise formality. “A small matter, brightness, one I would judge unworthy of your attention.”

The younger servant gasped, finding the statement bold, but it was judgments of that sort that made the difference between their stations.

A servant performed tasks as ordered, and avoided giving input when it wasn’t asked for. A master-servant was an expert in the realm of service, and managed the rest of the staff as necessary in order to ensure all ran smoothly. Sometimes, that meant giving one’s opinion to the employer, or even contradicting them, should that prove necessary.

Tanalata’s lips shifted, her bright green eyes unreadable, before saying, “I’ll be the judge of that.” Without even looking at Kali, she told the servant, “Back to your work, girl. I must have words with my right hand.”

“O-of course, brightness!” In her haste to obey, Kali darted out of the room without giving a proper bow.

Eyes still locked on Tana’s, Nesh didn’t think the brightlady even noticed Kali’s mistake.

Once they were alone, Tanalata didn’t even need to say a word. She simply flicked her gaze to the door, and Nesh was already moving to close it.

Then, with privacy ensured, she settled her freehand on her employer’s hip, and let herself relax. Gone was the artificial smile that came with her job, replaced with one nearly identical, but borne from her heart. Just as she’d done with Hala before, Nesh let her posture loosen, savoring the simple feeling of her bronze fingers tracing circles on the sapphire silk of Tana’s havah.

This lowering of the guard was mirrored in the brightlady, who stepped into Nesh’s torso, burying her face in the master-servant’s bountiful chest. The work of Nesh’s digits bore fruit, teasing out a soft sound from the woman’s mouth. “We don’t have much time...”

“I know,” Nesh said, before leaning down, careful to avoid making contact with her lover’s braid, and kissed her on the forehead. “We rarely do. But I cherish every moment we are able to find, sweetheart.” Then, stepping back enough to reveal Tana’s face, Nesh put a single finger under her chin, tilting her head up so their lips could meet.

The shorter woman melted into Nesh’s kiss, letting herself be carried away by it, held in Nesh’s arms and nearly going limp from the loving embrace.

While many had described Brightlady Tanalata as a beauty, Nesh doubted any other could see her the way she did. Leaving aside the matter of her lush lips, her expressive eyes, her demure figure, no one else knew the way she needed. Whatever face she wore to the rest of the world, in private, the brightlady craved attention, craved affection, craved sensation.

It just so happened these were things Nesh was all too happy to give her.

Eventually, however, the kiss had to end, and when it did Nesh couldn’t hold back her thought any longer. “Speaking of the time we steal together,” Nesh hummed, the sound rich with amusement, “it seems we were less discreet than expected.”

Tana suddenly went solid as stone, and out of the corner of her eye, Nesh swore she saw a flash of red at her feet. “The girl knows?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Nesh cooed, quickly running her freehand up to Tana’s shoulder blades, where she was able to soothe her worries with touch as well as words. “She simply found a trace of our last rendezvous.” Pointing over to the lingerie glove tucked away in the bedding, the garment made of material so thin it was translucent, Nesh tried to focus on the present, and not distract herself by thinking too much of the night that had involved such play. “I’m sure Kali thinks they belong to the merchant you lent the room to during the last highstorm.” Heralds knew the woman in question owned a similar glove or two.

“Of course,” Tana said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Frowning, Nesh refused to back down. “Even if she did, what would it matter?” After all, no matter the difference in their stations, Nesh’s eyes were as light as Tana’s.

Gaze focused on the offending garment, Tana’s voice was hard as steel. “You don’t understand, Nesh. I’m still new to my position, there is so much...” She shook her head, abandoning her explanation. “We agreed, at the start. No one knows.”

“No one knows,” Nesh repeated, and while it took some effort to get the brightlady to relax in her embrace, before long the issue was forgotten.

Or so Nesh believed, at the time.

The streets of Kholinar did not seem as charming after dark as they had earlier that day, seen from the protection of a pane of glass.

“Come on,” Klyns urged, tugging Nesh along by one hand. “Stop dragging your feet, love!” The other master-servant’s long white eyebrows trailed after her as she tried to walk quickly down the alley, pressing further and further from the main thoroughfares of the city.

Klyns still wore the side-buttoned shirt of her uniform, but now it was paired with a set of trousers of a dark blue, matching the navy hue of her eyes. She was a stout woman, a few years older than Nesh, with thick arms and short-cropped brown hair. Far from ideals of Vorin beauty, and Klyns was proud of it. Storms, she looks stunning right now, Nesh silently marveled.

Glancing down at her own clothes, the sort of simple silk dress that was common among tenner women, Nesh found she couldn’t squash her brewing fears. “But I don’t even drink...”

“Tch,” the Thaylen girl chided, the sound thick and harsh. “It’s not about the drinking! It’s about enjoying yourself!” It had taken years for Klyns to rope Nesh into an outing like this, and the sheer volume of her prior refusals weighed upon her now, ensuring that for once, she had no polite recourse but to give this a chance.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t complain along the way, of course. “I enjoy myself plenty,” Nesh said with a pout, thinking of the fresh marks hidden by the long hem of her skirt.

Still tugging Nesh along, following some internal map of the area that Nesh had no choice but to trust, Klyns’s voice dripped with doubt. “You’re friendly, I’ll give you that, but you spend too much time at the Brightlady’s beck and call. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” Nesh told her, feeling a tinge of pain at the very suggestion otherwise. The two had trained together to earn their black-and-white uniforms, and had taken pains to be hired by the same employer whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Turning to look back at Nesh, the torchlight of the approaching street glinted off her white teeth, as she bared them in a wide grin. “Then trust me! You’ll love this place. It’s full of people like us!”

‘People like us.’

Nesh doubted the words. What could Klyns even mean by them?

For her, there was no us. Nesh had made friends, had built relationships, had forged a life for herself again and again and again, but no matter what camaraderie she found, there was always a gap, a wall. Flyvn, Beynith, Klyns, Tana, all of them had somewhere they fit, somewhere they belonged, and Nesh?

The only people she’d ever considered her own were long dead, their blood spilled and left to soak in expensive carpets.

That was the truth.

Yet, all it took was a single trip to a bar named after one of the Ten Fools to shake her faith in that fact.

That night, she met women who had been men, and men who had been women. She got to use her Azish Standard Sign practice for the first time in years, communicating animatedly with a deaf man from Tashikk, and who taught her a little of the more casual Vorin finger language that was more prevalent in the east. She watched as Klyns unwound, laughing at untoward jokes and flushing at the attentions of the bar’s pretty serving girl.

No one pressed Nesh to drink. Perhaps that is why, after an hour or two, she’d started to sip a wine that burned her throat and dulled her senses..

For years she’d avoided anything that could inebriate her, afraid it would be the weakness that would lead to everything falling apart, but... it was just nice. She felt warm, inside and out, and she spoke freely of her pains, her desires, her dreams. (She did not name Tanalata, for even tipsy, Nesh had the wits to keep her word.)

Promises were made that next time, she’d bring her lunui and give them all a show.

Or maybe, Nesh thought as she left by herself, seeing that Klyns wanted more time before she retired for the evening, Danahui can be the one to grace them with a performance.

The thought made her giggle as the sounds of triumphant and joyful strings agreed with her idea.

Before she could examine the idea further, before she could devote some floaty thoughts to the matter of who did what and why, a shadow in the alley behind her moved, and Nesh realized there was a man approaching her.

She never learned if the man was a pickpocket, or perhaps a more violent thief ready to stab her for her spheres, or a drunken sot stumbling along trying to find somewhere to sleep, or an assassin ready to finish the work that had begun when she was but a child.

She never learned because the fear that had swelled in her so swiftly was immediately washed away, smoothed into a calm lake hiding deadly pits, as Karusar set her stance and readied herself for a fight.

The man froze.

That was his mistake.

Without a weapon, without armor, Karusar settled for the simplest tactic, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him, leaving him to fall to the stone of the alley before Karusar began to back away, ears deaf to his curses, waiting until there was enough distance between them so that she could run.

The move hadn’t come as easily as she’d anticipated. Battah’s balls, why haven’t I been practicing? Years without training has left me weak.

It wasn’t until she was blocks away, halfway home, that Nesh came back.

When she did, the terror returned in force, and with it, a horrible dread that made her nearly nauseous. I hurt that man. He could have, he could have hit his head! I didn’t know if he was dangerous, I just... The violence done by her hand sickened her.

And yet, all those “I” “I” “I” statements felt wrong, because thinking back on what had just occurred, Nesh couldn't tell if she had performed those actions or simply watched as they unfolded. It had been her body that moved, her leg that had slammed into his, her mouth scowling as her eyes narrowed at the fallen man, but... it hadn't been her.

It had been...

No. No, no, that's not possible.

Karusar wasn’t real. Not really.

That had been an unruly, difficult time in her life. A coming of age spent hurting others for money, because there was no other work she could find.

That name, that life, was behind her, it wasn’t hers any longer. She’d never touch a sword again, she’d never break another nose, and she would never, ever, pretend to be that person. That part of her life could no more force her hand than the past could become the present.

The thoughts awoke a chorus in her head, some of it angry, some of it pitying, some of it consoling.

None of it was her.

Nesh leaned against a wall, and realized there were tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m not mad...” she whispered to herself, looking up at the bright moon of Nomon above. “I’m not. Please, I can’t...”

Shuddering, she forced those emotions down, wiped the tears away with her sleeve, and stalked off back to the rooms of the Brightlady Tanalata, to the servant’s quarters where she and Klyns slept side by side. The task was made more difficult by the sapphire wine still in her system, but she managed it regardless.

Staring up at the ceiling as she lay to sleep, Nesh made herself a promise.

I’ll forget this all by tomorrow morning.

Chapter Text

-27-

Rhythm of Ego

“It could be that you hear voices, but it’s just as likely you don’t. Some of us start off noticing we don’t feel alone in our own heads. Or by doing some thinking, and realizing that there is no single ‘I’, more of a ‘we’. Could be, you’re looking back at your day and noticing you don’t remember whole chunks of it, and that’s leaving you drawing fearspren. However you got here, welcome.”

—Untitled Pamphlet by Unknown Author

If there was one thing that Eshonai found inconvenient about Shardplate, it was all the standing.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite accurate. There were quite a few aspects to wearing the treasured armor that proved frustrating, but at that moment, the way that the sheer bulk of the metal tended to smash apart any piece of furniture Eshonai tried to sit on was certainly first on her mind.

Leaning against the interior wall of the building, one crafted by her people with shells and crem, Eshonai resisted the urge to hum to the Rhythm of Annoyance, her eyes stuck on the figure laid out in a cot before her.

This beaten, broken man lying unconscious in captivity was the best hope her people had of surviving. His skin was pale, and he sweated enough to make the small chamber stink of it, but that was an improvement, all things considered. At least none of his wounds were still bleeding, there was no sign of rotspren, the swelling in his face and legs had gone down, and he didn’t look like he was one bad cough away from dying.

Maybe it wasn’t the sort of progress Eshonai had hoped for, but with the way the winds were blowing, she couldn’t help but be thankful that something was going right.

Footsteps sounded outside. “What is that?” came the voice of one of the guards Eshonai had trusted with the position, speaking to the Rhythm of Skepticism. The very fact the guard was using Alethi told her who was trying to get in.

“Just some food, nothing to get all grumbly about.” Then the door opened, and a short human entered, balancing two bowls of soup under his only remaining arm without managing to spill a drop. When he caught sight of Eshonai, the man’s dark eyes lit up, and something about his ever-present grin changed, though Eshonai didn’t know enough about human expressions to read it well. “Gancha! What’re you doing here? Thought you’d be, sure, too busy to stick around watching the sleeping penhito.”

Eyes tracking the bowls as they tilted and tipped on their way across the room, Eshonai met Lopen in the middle, taking what she assumed must be her meal before it could spill and soak the man. “I just need somewhere to think,” she said, words sticking to the steady beat of Confidence.

Bringing the other bowl to his charge, Lopen palmed the bottom into his hand and held the tip to the sleeping general’s lips. With a groan, the human opened his mouth, and Lopen got to slowly feeding him. “Is it a sister sort of thinking?” Lopen asked, without taking his eyes off the Blackthorn.

It was strange how cautious they all were around a man barely clinging to life. To Eshonai and the others, it made sense. In the years since the slaughter had begun, how many of their people had died with smoking black pits for eyes, slain by this man or his son?

Yet, if anything, Lopen was even more wary. The fear of a deserter?

“It’s about Venli,” Eshonai confirmed, forcing her words to stick to Confidence, instead of falling into the Rhythm of the Lost.

“Family’s a tricky thing,” Lopen agreed, and he was smart enough to speak quieter as he did. As far as Eshonai knew, the guards to this room could be trusted, but any sense of safety in Narak was becoming rarer by the day. “I love my cousins, but in the sort of way Puio loves fire. Feelings don’t stop you from getting burned.”

Eshonai didn’t know what to say about that, but allowed herself to hum aloud to Betrayal.

The human couldn’t understand what it meant, and yet... just hearing the low, slow notes of the rhythm had Lopen lowering his gaze, pausing in his slow and steady feeding of the prisoner to let out a sigh. “What’s going to happen, gancha?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Eshonai caught the sight of approaching fearspren, slinking into the room, coming close enough to their conversation that they could rise from the floor to lap at their terror.

Whether they drew from her, or from Lopen, she didn’t know.

More than anything, looking at the shaken man, Eshonai wanted to promise him something. I won’t let anything happen to you. But of course, any such vow would be worthless. Eshonai was beginning to fear that there’d be no saving her own people, though whether that pessimism reflected their lives or their forms, she still didn’t know. With each passing day, the latter became the more likely option. “I’ll do what I can,” was all she found she could tell him.

Lopen ducked his head in a small nod, then went back to feeding the Blackthorn the weak and watery stew. “He talk to you?”

“Not since last week,” Eshonai told him, before retreating a few steps and sipping at her own meal. “You?”

“Ohhh, he tried, sure, a few days ago.” The tone of his voice, it seemed to Eshonai, must have been the human equivalent to speaking to Amusement. “Same stuff as usual. Saying I gotta help him, we have to escape. I tell you, gancha, he might as well have stayed a moolie.” When the broth ran dry, Lopen pulled the bowl away, set the crem-covered rockbud shell aside, and took a seat in a stool several steps away from the bed, turning his attention completely to Eshonai.

She sipped, and watched him, and hated the distrust she felt towards his open and unassuming face.

Lopen, evidently ‘The Lopen’ before he’d come here, was fairly short, for a human. Thin and boney, with marks scarred into his forehead. Slave brands. Months ago, he’d surrendered out on the plains, and Eshonai had made the decision to take him. Their first captive in years.

Now, here he was. Being trusted to tend to the newer prisoners, able to name half the listeners in Narak, and someone Eshonai was starting to consider a friend.

Maybe those brands on his face were why so many of the listeners had been coming around to their ‘captive’. Few enough of Eshonai’s people shared a language with him that his banter was mostly lost on them, but those scars told a story all on their own.

And yet, Venli’s words, spoken when they’d first captured the surrendering bridgeman, bore a seed of truth: ‘A spy can wear a brand as easily as a slave.’ Eshonai had argued against her sister’s theory, strenuously, and in the end the rest of the Five had sided with her. There was no point to sending in a spy, not when the humans were well on their way to wiping out the listeners completely.

Lopen had volunteered himself before they’d even taken the Blackthorn, so it couldn’t be part of a scheme to release him, and Eshonai couldn’t think of any way the humans could know what Venli and her scholars were planning.

If they did, Eshonai doubted they’d continue the game of fighting over gemhearts. If they had any clue at all the powers Venli was courting, they would strike Narak, and end it all.

Still, looking at Lopen, the doubt couldn’t keep its way out of her heart. “You weren’t tempted?” she asked to Tension.

The man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Not really.”

“Why?”

“I know you look at us,” Lopen told her, voice just as energetic as usual, “and see ‘human’, right gancha? But, sure, you know it’s more complicated.” Eshonai nodded. In the same ways the listeners were once split into many feuding families, so too the humans had their own divisions. “Thing is, the Alethi? They think with their swords, y’know? Listeners aren’t the first to get them shoved pointy-end first in their throats, no way, not even on the first page of the list.” He made it sound so matter of fact, like it was simply the way of the world.

And my plan, Eshonai thought, black eyes flicking over to look at the general she’d managed to capture, is to negotiate a truce with these people.

Eshonai set her jaw, and finished her soup. Attuning to the Rhythm of Peace, checking the movement, told her that she didn’t have much time before the meeting.

“Keep an eye on him, Lopen. Once you’re sure he isn’t going to throw it up, go for a walk.” She nudged her neck in the direction of the door, of the guards, and hoped Lopen would know that she meant ‘lose your tail’. Of course, Eshonai didn’t know that Lopen would be spied on in that way anymore, but caution was necessary. Especially considering her last request. “Check in on our other friends when you can, see how they’re doing.”

Lopen saluted, and Eshonai put her helmet back on before stalking out of the room.

Maybe all she had was a dull plan, but compared to the alternative?

I’ll have to make it work.

There had been a time when walking through Narak made Eshonai’s heart sing to Despair.

But the times were changing, and as she climbed up the outside of the tower, her boots met the steps to the tune of Disappointment.

It’s only been three Highstorms, and already so many have turned their backs on everything we stand for.

As she reached the top, where already the others of the Five waited, Eshonai found herself meeting the gaze of her sister, stomach sickened by the red eyes that matched for too many of the listeners she’d passed on her way. This is not who we are.

“Was there to be a battle here I wasn’t aware of, sister?” Venli asked, her words matching one of those strange rhythms only those who had taken stormform could hear. Seeing the ridges of protective carapace piercing out through the skin of her sister’s face stopped her Disappointment in its tracks, and Eshonai felt lost, Rhythmless, as she so often did at the sight of Venli in her new form. What has happened to you?

It was then that Eshonai remembered they weren’t alone, and caught the sound of the gentle hummed Reprimand from all others present.

Eshonai could understand why. The Shardplate she wore made her footfalls all the more heavy, but even under it, she’d tread towards this discussion as though walking into war. I am not here to fight, she reminded herself, pushing back against the expectations of warform.

“No battle, of course,” Eshonai said to Supplication, before crossing to the other side of the tower’s roof and taking her place beside the others of the Five. Davim, Abronai, Chivi, and Zuln. Together with Eshonai, they led the listener people, representatives of the five forms they had.

Or, Eshonai considered, the five forms they had that remained untainted by the gods.

All attention turned towards Venli, this time the sole member of her scholars who had been permitted to address the Five. Davim steepled his thick, workform fingers together, and was the first to ask the question on all of their minds. “Why have you called this meeting, Venli? If this is about your Six proposal...”

“It is not,” Venli said, her words falling into the quick beats of Anticipation, “I am aware that such a significant change will take time to consider, and won’t inquire about it further.”

All around her, the other members of the five hummed to Appreciation. Eshonai was sure she caught Abronai even attuning Surprise for a moment first, before joining the others. But Eshonai stuck to Determination. Venli hopes to earn their respect by showing unexpected humility, Eshonai thought, but there is not a humble bone in my sister’s body. If she bends on such a point, it is only so her words on another will be heard. Eshonai’s hands clenched into fists. And they’re all falling for it.

Narrowing his eyes, Abronai switched rhythms, falling into the slow beats of Curiosity with a grace at odds with the mateform he wore. “You are here about your promised storm.” A hush fell across those assembled, all attuning to that same Curiosity. “Why? We have given leave for you to share the gems with any who wish to assume the new form.”

“Not without great debate,” Chivi said, though whether the Irritation that guided the nimbleform’s words was towards those who supported Venli’s new form, or those who feared it, Eshonai wasn’t sure.

“You have, and I am grateful,” Venli said, and if there were such a thing as a Rhythm of Ego, Eshonai would have bet her Shardplate that her red-eyed sister would be singing it openly. “You are correct, this is about the storm, and a hurdle that has arisen on our path towards summoning it.”

Even on this, the hottest part of the day, as the sun beat down on them all and Eshonai herself wore half her body weight in armor, a chill ran through her at Venli’s words.

“Yes, the storm that can only be brought about with the form of power you’ve returned to us,” Eshonai said slowly, making sure there was no mistake as to the Skepticism she intended. “A form which comes from the very gods we once gave up everything to abandon. A storm which you know of, which you can somehow feel, but cannot explain.”

“If you took stormform, as I have advised,” Venli rebutted, “there would be no need for explanation.”

I’ll take stormform on the same day I take a long walk on a short plateau, Eshonai thought grimly.

Davim stopped their bickering with a hard clearing of his throat, before putting to Venli, “What problem is plaguing you?”

“We are running out of volunteers.” Venli’s words, delivered so casually, so simply, sickened Eshonai to her core. Of course, her sister just kept on talking. “We have all the gemstones and stormspren we need, but unless more listeners learn to see reason, the number of new stormforms will stagnate.”

“Are you suggesting,” Zuln, dullform of the Five, said slowly, and all waited for her to gather the wits needed to finish her comment, “an end to our freedom?” Another pause, as she fought through the haze dullform inflicted on the mind. “You would choose their forms for them?” Eshonai attuned to Appreciation, glad someone else would challenge Venli in this.

Venli hummed to Amusement, loudly, and began speaking so quickly after Zuln finished that she came close to outright speaking over her. “No, of course not. I simply wish to educate our people. Once it is made clear to them that it is only through stormform, only through the new storm, that we have any chance to survive, they will see reason.” Venli paused, and all waited, knowing she had more to say. “It would help, should this message bear the weight of the Five upon it.”

“There is another way,” Eshonai insisted. “We have the Blackthorn. We need only enough time for him to recover, and then we can—” Davim held up his hand, and Eshonai stopped, dread sinking in her stomach.

“More time?” the workform asked, and while he did not speak aloud to Ridicule, Eshonai felt it anyway. “We are running out of time, Eshonai. Your choice to capture this human, as well as his honor guard, put further strain on our limited resources. You promise us a path to peace, but has the human spoken to you of a truce? Or has he only mumbled more nonsense about visions and honor?”

It would be so much easier, Eshonai thought, attuning to Irritation, if I could stomach lying as easily as Venli. “No.” She had spoken to him of an end to the fighting, at length, but as the Blackthorn regained his wits, his lips tightened in equal measure. “But, I am sure that—”

“We have already allowed our people access to stormform, Eshonai,” Chivi chided. “If more in this new form will save our people, I do not think an endorsement of Venli’s project would be a step too far.” Then, as though reluctant to admit it, she said, “At this point, I believe the storm has a far better chance of saving us all then your human does. I support Venli’s proposal.”

“As do I,” Davim agreed.

Zuln and Eshonai, of course, stayed silent... which left all looking to Abronai, to see which way the representative of the mateforms would choose. “I support the proposal,” he mused, “but only so long as all those who take the form are truly willing.”

There was more talk after that, more banter, more stipulations, but Eshonai stopped listening.

Perhaps that was immature of her. She was a member of the Five now, the one who stood for all other warforms, and yet any ability to focus on the words of the others fell away while Eshonai’s world threatened to crumble around her.

I cannot let this happen. We cannot throw away all our ancestors’ sacrifice once bought us.

Before the meeting had even officially ended, Eshonai realized she could take no more, and retreated down the steps of the tower. Venli, of course, watched with victory in those glowing red eyes.

In the aftermath, Eshonai went through the motions. Checking on her army, who were still recovering after their last fight over a chrysalis; speaking with her mother, who mistook her for Venli and chided her about songs; asking after the treatment of the Blackthorn’s honor guard, who remained stoic and hateful, as much towards Lopen as towards any listener.

Only once all this was done, and the sun began to hang low on the horizon, did Eshonai act on the sole subject occupying her thoughts.

As leader of the listener army, clad from the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head in Shardplate, it was not easy for Eshonai to be inconspicuous. So many of those around her now watched her wanderings around Narak with the same red eyes as her sister, and Eshonai had no doubt that her movements were being reported.

Eventually, Eshonai began to feel as though her trail was getting cold enough, and she set out to the edge of the ruined city.

Once, the crem-covered mound she approached had been a building, perhaps a home, but like so much else in their last place of refuge, time had swallowed it in rock. With so much of Narak built by listener hands, they avoided the haunted remains of the human city whenever they could. It was their custom to respect the dead, and to avoid disturbing what remained of them.

It’s why Eshonai had chosen this particular, unremarkable dwelling, far from where the listeners had centered their habitation of the skeleton city, and carved a new door in one side.

The guards, warforms she trusted with this secret, relaxed as she approached, and said nothing as she entered.

Inside, any furnishings that had once existed were naught but dust, which left the two humans, bound in thick vines and gagged with cloth, to sit on the stone floor and stare up at Eshonai as she approached. One was an agitated female who seemed to vibrate with anger, the other a solemn male who barely moved at all, and both were dressed with clothing far more fine than any common soldier. Their eyes are light, Eshonai thought. Among the humans, that speaks of importance.

Kneeling down in front of them, Eshonai raised her hands, firmly removing the cloth from their mouths.

“Let us go,” hissed the female.

“Perhaps,” Eshonai told her, speaking to Consideration and glad that the time with Lopen had improved her Alethi, “but first, you will tell me why you are here, and how you nearly snuck into my city.”

Chapter Text

-28-

Being Yourself

“Maybe you’re not reading this for you. Maybe someone you love said they’re splitting or a headcase or whatever term came to mind for them, and you want to learn. If so, good on you. They must trust you, and you’ve got a chance to make their life a lot storming easier. Most of us don’t get that chance.”

—Untitled Pamphlet by Unknown Author

Despite the rich carpentry and the hanging reliefs of the Heralds, walking through the corridors of the Pinnacle reminded Shallan more of stormshelter coves than it did the Conclave of Kharbranth.

A palace it may have been, but it was still one only built in recent memory, borne of defensibility first, practicality second, and comfort much further down the list, under things like ‘has lots of fabrials’ or ‘right amount of stairs’.

There were other people scurrying about the grand stone beast’s innards, of course, but most were servants, and the few others of her station Shallan passed had the look of military men, strutting about while taking in reports of... well, whatever it is they cared about. Troop numbers or enemy casualties or the menu for dinner, Shallan supposed.

And with every step, Shallan felt a terrible ache in her slippered soles. Every fall of her slipper-like shoes on the carpet brought out a wince of pain, but that was all she’d give up. After all, she wasn’t alone.

Following just a few steps behind her and to her left, Nesh tilted her head. “Your feet are in pain, Brightness?” she asked, tone professional, yet sweet.

Shallan was too irate at her to be mollified by a sugary voice. I daresay they’re in danger of rebelling against the rest of me due to blatant mistreatment. But the complaint stayed merely a thought, and all she said aloud was, “I’m fine.”

They turned at a side corridor, following the gentle incline down, and Shallan could recognize the surroundings enough to know they were approaching her quarters.

For some time, the master-servant was silent, and the two walked without exchanging a word. But then Nesh broached the subject again, and her words came out softer, with a sense of gentle trepidation, as though expecting to be harshly rebuked.“You’re unhappy with me, aren’t you?”

Yes, Shallan thought. For reasons I cannot fathom, my schedule has been placed into your hands, and you’ve made an utter mess of it. Worse still, you dangle this idea that we’ve met before, that you know my family, right in front of my nose and then you refuse to elaborate.

All of those bitter thoughts sat there, on the tip of Shallan’s tongue, as they approached the quarters she shared with Jasnah and Adolin. Some part of her, rebellious and indignant, pushed for her to loose them like arrows from a bow, but as Shallan turned to face Nesh, light yellow eyes meeting Shallan’s and waiting for an answer, she found herself swallowing the bile instead.

“I’m frustrated,” she admitted instead. “There are better ways to spend my time.”

Nesh inclined her head far enough that Shallan could better see the round bun she’d tied her expanse of red hair into. “I do not dispute that, Brightness. However, the princess has entrusted you to me and asked that I ensure you are prepared for the social expectations of the Alethi court.” For just a moment, that ever-present smile, a simple curving of her lips, disappeared as Nesh sighed. “You were able to be excused for one feast, after all the travel it took to get here, but...”

“But there’s to be another before too long,” Shallan said bitterly.

“According to my sources, it will be held in less than fifteen days.” Nesh shook her head. “You are a foreigner of the fifth dahn, Brightness, and Jasnah Kholin’s ward as well. This would prove bait enough, but there are already rumors circulating of your close ties with Prince Adolin.”

Shallan threw up her hands. “I know! I’ve fallen face-first into high status, or at least the appearance of it, and as befits their reputation, every woman here will be circling around me like predators drawn to the smell of fresh blood! Thus, you push me to attend salons and meals and whatever else so that at least I can begin to catalog my enemies as I would types of cremlings or shalebark!”

The master-servant blinked, evidently caught off-guard by this outburst. “An apt metaphor, Brightness.” Still, she stood at attention, one arm before her, the other behind, each bent at a precise horizontal angle.

“Just because I can understand the necessity of spending my morning listening to Janala butcher a poetic analysis in that insipid voice of hers, only to then suffer through Malasha’s whining about being kept away from the battlefield while I try to eat my lunch, does not mean I have to enjoy it.” All of that said, Shallan let out a ragged breath, and fixed Nesh with what she hoped was an unyielding look, and not simply a childish pout.

It was impossible to say, really, because Nesh didn’t react other than to nod her head again and acquiesce. “I am at your command, Brightness. If you wish to be rid of me for a day or two, I can oblige that request easily.”

Shallan could not miss the implication: despite being Shallan’s attendant, supposedly her servant, Nesh was only willing to set aside these duties for a limited time, even should Shallan demand otherwise. She’s Jasnah’s creature, not mine, Shallan knew. Though how exactly Jasnah came to earn her loyalty, I would certainly love to know. She’d asked, but Jasnah had evaded the question.

“The rest of today, as well as all of tomorrow?” Shallan tried to confirm. “Not a single appointment?” It would certainly give her the time she desired.

Nesh’s smile grew by degrees. “Just so.” Then, she gave a small, tittering laugh, covering her mouth with her white safehand sleeve as she did. “If I may be honest, Brightness, I was hoping you’d be amenable to such an idea anyway.” Then she pulled her sleeve away, and for the first time since meeting her, Shallan noticed a sense of fatigue in those bright yellow eyes. “I too have much to do, and only so much time in which to do it.”

Wait, did I talk her into this, Shallan wondered, or did she lead me to it? Shallan wasn’t sure how much she cared for the latter, but it left her with the freedom she coveted, so was it right of her to complain? “It’s decided then. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Indeed,” Nesh agreed, though before she departed, she had one last snarlbrush to plant in Shallan’s path. “Speaking of, the day after tomorrow was when Brightness Morakotha was interested in a private breakfast, one just between the two of you. Should I send word that you’re amenable to this outing?”

That name sounded vaguely familiar from the lists Nesh had given her, but it took a moment for Shallan to recall the exact woman in question. “Danlan?” Nesh nodded. From what I recall, the notes suggested she seemed of low risk, and if she requested to see me privately... “Yes, I think I can stomach such a meal.” With that settled, Nesh took a bow and left, allowing Shallan to finally retreat.

In many ways, the quarters Shallan had been given were similar to those she shared with Jasnah in Kharbranth. A central room, with space to take meals or relax by the fire, along with several private bedrooms for all involved.

Yet here, the rich excesses of the Alethi monarchy made themselves clear. A heating fabrial instead of a true fire, several bookcases with a collection of knowledge between them that outstripped Shallan’s family collection by several orders of magnitude, and enough furnishings that Shallan was vaguely sure that selling the contents of just this one room would have been enough to pay off her family’s debts, then and there.

My family... Shallan crossed her arms before her, feeling that familiar fear strike her. No amount of spheres can save them now. Not with Jah Keved in turmoil, my actions bringing the wrath of a king down upon them, and the Ghostbloods still looking to take what they are owed.

But then something welled up in her, a confidence to keep the terror at bay. Jasnah said she’ll do all to guarantee their safety. I trust her.

Of course, but... The absurdity of that train of thought made Shallan want to laugh, the momentary bravado disappearing like a petal in a breeze. Jasnah’s still a person. She’s fallible, and just because Kaladin’s parents could be safely escorted here, it doesn’t mean the same for my brothers.

This was a topic in which Shallan could argue in a circle with herself, without any end in sight. It was one cloud among an overcast sky. The impending threat of the Voidbringers, the search for an Oathgate to Urithiru, the practice of powers lost for millenia, the strange gaps forming in Shallan’s memory, the protection of Adolin until Kaladin could return...

Overwhelming.

And so Shallan retreated to Adolin’s room, and sat on the bed with them, Pattern vibrating at her feet.

Instead of talking with their friend of how the morning had gone, Shallan focused both of their attentions on something else.

“Incredible,” Adolin breathed, a smile forming on their lips while an awespren burst around their head.

The Alethi royal was watching what appeared to be a skittering cremling on the ground, its movements close enough to the real thing for the average person to believe the lie. But there was no carapace, only Light bound to Pattern, replicating a series of sketches Shallan had made on the journey to the Plains, when she’d been able to find the attention and interest in her favorite activity.

Brushing a lock of red hair behind her ear, Shallan tried to ignore the warmth in her cheeks and the pride in her heart. “It’s nothing, really.” She pointed as Pattern buzzed around, the illusion following along. “Do you see the way the legs reset to their starting positions after the third step? I could do better.”

“Better?” Adolin gave Shallan a look that was half amusement and half rebuke. “Shallan, you made a cremling. Out of nothing.”

“That,” Pattern hummed, his buzzing voice sounding more alert and alive by the day, “is not true. Mmm. The cremling is a lie, and yet, it is a good lie.” The spren moved closer to Shallan, approaching the bed, and she could have sworn the illusory cremling actually lifted its head to look at her.

The powers of expectation, she supposed. “There’s no sound,” Shallan complained, trying to turn and hide from the compliments. “And Pattern says I should be capable of that.”

“Mmhmm,” Adolin replied, though Shallan found herself confident that they weren’t actually agreeing with her. “You’re right. By the way, Shallan, how long have you had to practice your Surgebinding? I can’t remember.”

For just a moment, the question brought to mind a familiar garden, a pattern in the dust, light that moved however she wanted it to.

It was gone a moment later, stuffed down as far and as deep as Shallan could force it. When she tried to talk, tried to pretend nothing happened, her throat was so tight that nothing intelligible came out.

But with a breath, slow and precise, she was able to manage a few words. “The ship, then... the last few days.” In New Natanatan, she hadn’t... reasons failed her as she tried to think back to that time, a blur of sight and sounds and sensations but no true recollections, and in the carriage, there hadn’t been the privacy necessary for this sort of practice. All she’d been able to do was draw.

“Maybe a few weeks of time, then? If we’re being generous.”

Shallan nodded, all the while turning farther away from Adolin, her pout reaching near-Kaladin proportions.

An arm encircled her waist, and if its twin still lived, Shallan was sure there would be two. “Were you able to accomplish all you can with paints and charcoal and... I don’t know, art stuff? In the same time? Or did it take a little longer to completely master?”

“You’re infuriating,” Shallan said.

“I’m right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Shallan noticed as the illusion dissipated into fading Light, the power sustaining it having finally run out. “You could be.” It was traitorous, the way her indignation could barely be heard in her voice under the embarrassed glee.

Adolin rested their forehead against the back of Shallan’s neck, and said, so quietly that even were there others present, they’d have heard nought. “What else is going on? Talk to me.”

“My feet are killing me,” Shallan admitted. She could have kept quiet, obfuscated, but something about the moment, or perhaps simply Adolin themself, was able to bypass such defenses. “I’ve spent most of my day thus far with people I can’t stand. Literally, that awful salon with Janala didn’t have any chairs, and now I’m afraid I’ll never be able to stand again.” She was catastrophizing, exaggerating, but it helped to cover her deeper concerns.

It had been fun to discuss poetry, to spend time with other women around her age. A few years ago, Shallan would have ached for such an opportunity.

But now, even as she laughed with them and made her own ridiculous witty comments, Shallan couldn’t stop wondering how much of her these women could see. Were they able to look beyond the mask she wore? Could they tell she was a monster, a simulacrum of the woman Shallan should have been?

At least she knew Adolin didn’t see that. If they could, they wouldn’t be embracing in their private bedroom.

If they could, Adolin wouldn’t want to think about Shallan, let alone touch her.

“...it feels silly to say, after your complaining, but I wish I had your problems,” Adolin said, after a silence that Shallan had nearly missed as she withdrew into her own head. Shamespren fell around them at their words. “I’ve barely left the palace since we got here,” and Shallan felt like all Ten Fools at once, of course issues like too much walking would hit Adolin that way, “and my friends...”

“They can burn in Damnation,” Shallan hissed, trying to use righteous anger to ignore her own embarrassment. “Barely replying to any of your letters, and now that you’re here, have any of them come to see you?”

Adolin rested their head on Shallan’s shoulder, and made a sound that broke her heart. “Jakamav did. He brought a few others.” And that had been the day after they’d arrived. As far as Shallan knew, there’d been none since.

They feel isolated, Shallan knew, though she was less aware of how she could even begin to help.

While she brooded on that question, Adolin yawned. “I need to rest.” Then they paused, their tone turning bashful once they continued. “If you want... you could join me? It seems like you could use it.”

“That...” Shallan shivered, and did nothing to try and repress it. We can’t, I mean... just because Kaladin wants to be with both of us, that doesn’t mean we can... “Yes. Please.”

To Shallan’s relief and disappointment, all Adolin had been inviting her to was lying side by side in their bed as the beautiful royal napped. Of course, Shallan was supposed to be doing the same, but despite her earlier exhaustion, sleep refused to even approach.

That isn’t necessarily a problem, Shallan thought, slipping from bed. Doing her utmost not to disturb Adolin’s rest, she took her sketchpad, a few clothes from Adolin’s wardrobe, and with Pattern hot on her heels, she fled the room to reach her own.

It was time.

Walking towards her room’s mirror, Shallan retrieved a sketch she’d folded safely in her safehand pouch, anticipationspren bursting around her feet like red streamers to announce her intentions.

“Shallan?” Pattern asked.

Focusing her mind on what she’d rendered with careful application of ink on paper, Shallan took in a deep breath, sucking in some Stormlight from the lighting sconce of her room, plunging her surroundings into dimness.

Whatever fatigue and soreness she’s started to develop from her many appointments faded away, cured by the Light. That left the rest of the storm raging inside of her veins free for a greater purpose.

Eyes on her reflection, Shallan saw the Light rising from her skin, like vapor off a boiling pot. It was rare for her to smile at the sight of herself, and perhaps it was the Stormlight pushing her thoughts in new directions, but at the moment, all she could do was grin. “With my abilities,” she said, “I can look like anyone. Go anywhere.” Freedom. After a lifetime in a gilded cage, the idea was more intoxicating than violet wine. Or at least, she assumed as much, having never yet had the chance to drink it. “I can’t just make cremlings, Pattern. I need to practice being someone else.”

“A new lie...” Pattern said, his voice abuzz with interest.

Not wanting to wait a moment longer, Shallan breathed out the Light, and became someone new.

No dead parents. No blood on her hands. No rules to live by.

It had been so simple.

With brown eyes, black hair, and the uniform of a Kholin scout, no one had tried to stop her from leaving the palace.

Why would they? Darkeyed scouts were always moving to and fro, all over the warcamps, and so long as they didn’t draw undue notice, there was no reason to pay them any mind at all.

This is incredible. But she couldn’t show that emotion. After all, for anyone like her, going about unnoticed should be the norm. I’m not Shallan, she thought, and with every repetition the easier it came, the more true it felt.

Who she actually was, she didn’t know.

On the walk from the Pinnacle to the Outer Market, she had tried to think of a new name, but she simply couldn’t settle on one for longer than a few seconds. It doesn’t really matter though, does it? she thought to herself, an easy grin finding its way to her mouth. If anyone asks, I can say anything. I never have to wear this face again if I don’t want to.

Was this what it felt like to be powerful? Others may have spheres, or strength of arms, but could anyone else in all of Roshar share in her complete anonymity?

No. And that knowledge rested like a burning coal beneath her breast, the flames swelling with her ego.

When she walked into the Outer Market, she did it with hands lazily stuffed into the pockets on the trousers Shallan had snatched from Adolin’s room, matched with an old jacket to better fit the illusion of the uniform she feigned to wear.

There were guards prowling about, keeping an eye for anything untoward, all of them draped in the colors and symbols of the Kholins. But not a single one gave her as much as a glance. It didn’t take any effort to blend into the crowd, nothing but following the stream of people heading into the market.

Okay, well, perhaps it wasn’t all easy. Part of being a nobody meant no one was interested in showing her any deference, so if she didn’t get out of someone’s way, they’d bump into her without a second thought. The third person to step on her foot at least noticed the uniform and murmured an apology afterwards, but it came with a look that plainly stated the fault lay with her.

Buying something didn’t go well either. The smallest sphere she had on her was a firemark, taken from a cache Jasnah had given to Shallan so she could practice with them, and the look she got for trying to spend it on chouta immediately centered a lot of attention on her.

Those mistakes made her feel a fool, like she was just Shallan playing dress-up, but as she disappeared into an alley with white and red shamespren petals drifting behind her, she stuffed down those insecurities, told them to storm off, and did her best to emulate Kaladin. She didn’t have the surgeon’s height, sure, but if she wanted to try and feel like a pretty but tough darkeyed girl, there was no one better to cheat off of. Or at least, she didn’t have one yet. Maybe, with time, she’d find a better role model.

Maybe she could find inspiration in the backstreets.

She passed by a few children, playing with rags and sticks like they were prized toys. She saw someone trying to sleep in the shadow of an alley, curled up to hide from the world, smelling of something pungent. She came upon a few men talking in hushed voices, which fell into silence once they saw a Kholin scout approaching, and didn’t start up again until after she was too far to make out their words.

Maybe these sorts of things would have gotten some sort of a reaction from Shallan. No, they definitely would, she thought. She’d try and help the kids, she’d cringe away from the sleeping man, she’d try and find some way to spy on those chattering idiots. But whoever she was, she didn’t really care to do any of that.

Sure, it’d be nice to help people who needed it, but even broaching that sort of thought made her think of that look on the Herdazian street vendor’s face when he’d seen the inside of her spherepouch.

What point was there in trying to help others when she couldn’t even help herself?

Before she could take those thoughts any further, she heard music drifting on the wind. Distant, at first, but it wasn’t hard to track, and before long she was walking up to the one performing it.

Sitting on an overturned box was Shallan’s personal assistant. Nesh wasn’t wearing the black-and-white of her uniform as she had when Shallan had last seen her, and instead was clad in a navy skirt, layered and voluminous, paired with a blouse cut in a more masculine fashion with buttons down the sides, her safehand covered in a hardy glove. Her hair was still in a bun, but that soft face was tuned to utter concentration as she worked.

The instrument looked vaguely familiar, like something Shallan had seen before, years ago, with a circular base and a long neck. Metal wires, thin and made taut, were tuned to what sounded like perfection, and Nesh’s freehand glided across them with a wooden pick held between her fingers, her gloved safehand alternating between tensing different spots high on the instrument’s neck.

A throng of people gathered around Nesh so they could listen. Near the front were a gaggle of children, but those closer to Shallan were a more diverse crowd. Destitute travelers and aging mothers and crippled soldiers all gave Nesh their ears, and Shallan couldn’t help but do the same.

Her playing had a gentle, flowing melody to it, like a river several days after the highstorm that brought its water. It wasn’t simple, Shallan had enough of an ear for music to tell that, but it sounded effortless. With it came words, in Alethi, telling a tale of... well, Shallan wasn’t entirely sure. It was something to do with love, but it sounded almost mournful. Not grieving, there was no sign in the lyrics that the narrator’s partner had died, but... perhaps, their relationship had.

Using metaphors of plants untended and food gone rotten, it made Shallan think of a love wasting away, kept alive only out of a refusal to accept what was obvious.

Arms crossed before her, leaning against an alley wall, Shallan felt sick to her stomach and fought hard to keep herself from crying. How can anyone sing so sweetly about such a thing? Shallan thought.

And then, just as Shallan considered walking away, Nesh made eye-contact with her, still singing, the words and music not losing their tempo for even a moment, and it felt as though the scholar’s heart would stop beating entirely.

But the feeling of danger passed, and she remembered something important. Right now, I’m not Shallan. I’m nobody. It was a huge relief, but she forced herself not to sigh with the emotion. She has no idea who I am. How could she? Any sense that Nesh held her gaze longer than she did with any of her other listeners was nothing but paranoia talking.

It was only once any Shallan-ness was safely sunk to the bottom of whatever passed for her soul that she noticed there was someone behind Nesh, standing closer than any of the others. A lighteyed woman, seemingly Alethi but without much of their characteristic height, clad in a long coat and trousers. She was looking at the master-servant like a merchant who was appraising a good and happy with what they found.

And while she focused on this mysterious woman, Nesh ended her song, setting the instrument on her knees and giving her crowd a smile that felt more honest than any she’d ever directed at Shallan. “Thank you for your time,” Nesh said, voice clear as a bell.

“Is that all?” asked one of the children.

“My fault,” said the woman from behind Nesh, who didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “I’ve come to steal her away from you.” The words brought on a chorus of sighs and chuckles, and slowly the crowd dispersed.

But not all of them. One soldier in the red and green of Sadeas’s army approached on wobbling legs, and Nesh spoke with him in quiet tones. “Chair” and “soon” were all the words she managed to hear from Nesh’s lips, but whatever it had been, it earned her a tight hug from the man. Then came a woman, and at that point the girl stopped trying to eavesdrop.

She was ready to turn and walk off herself, but then Nesh stepped forward, her tan-eyed companion now standing by her side. “Enjoying an afternoon in the market?”

“Y-yeah,” she said and tried not to sweat more than she usually did, as if that was somehow inside her control. “It’s nice enough.” Before, the few times she’d talked in the market, she’d tried to sound a little gruffer, something fitting a woman in the military. Now, she forced it out almost as a growl, something lower than she was used to. Storms, I hope that didn’t sound like chull-dung.

“I’m Nesh, and this is Tyn,” came the introductions, though all this ‘Tyn’ woman did was nod in her direction.

Then they both started looking at her, expectant. Kelek’s breath! She wants a name! In a rush, no time to properly consider, she didn’t second-guess the first one that came to mind. “Veil.” Okay, not a normal name, but it’ll have to do.

Smile brightening, Nesh looked as though Veil had just told her that she was being elevated three dahn. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Veil!” She looked the disguised woman up and down, considering, before saying, “I do hope you’re enjoying the afternoon. It’s always important to find time to be yourself, when you can.” Something about the way she stressed those words made it seem like she was trying to pass along an unsaid message, but Veil couldn’t figure out what it was for the life of her.

“Yeah, sure,” Veil replied, trying not to overdo it on the gruffness this time. To her satisfaction, it came out a lot more naturally this time around.

It was then, with a confidence that was as casual as it was possessive, Tyn turned Nesh towards her and pulled her down by the collar for a quick but fiery kiss, then threw a smirk in Veil’s direction. “Nice meeting you, but we have things to do.” If Nesh had any complaints with the public display of affection or the blunt dismissal, she didn’t give it, instead seeming to melt into Tyn’s side.

Passionspren starting to fall around them like snow, they left Veil to herself, and when she caught sight of one of their hands reaching towards the other’s behind for a quick squeeze, Veil decided to follow their example and stalk off, cheeks ablaze.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to do that, she found herself thinking as she started back towards the lively center of the market.

An image came to her mind of Veil in that Tyn woman’s place, Kaladin in Nesh’s. Storms, what I wouldn’t give for her to just be back already.

In her imagination, Veil was still in an illusion, looking like any darkeyed Alethi woman, if a bit on the short side, leaner and more down-to-earth than Shallan could ever be. I should show her this sometime, she resolved. Adolin would worry, Adolin would try to butt in, but Kaladin? Veil couldn’t imagine her doing anything but celebrating at the reprieve from Shallan.

Regardless, that was all a matter for another day.

Veil didn’t want to think about the future. Unlike a certain red-head, her skies were unburdened by depressing clouds.

Instead, she decided to try getting drunk, and started to search for a bar.