She drew in Stormlight, and that made her increase her pace. Up ahead, an alley turned between two groups of tenements. Ignoring memories of a similar alleyway in Kharbranth, Shallan turned in to this one with a quick step, then immediately breathed out Stormlight, trying to shape it. Perhaps into the image of a large man, to cover over her coat, and . . .
And the Stormlight just puffed in front of her, doing nothing. She panicked, but forced herself to keep moving down the alleyway.
It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? She’d been able to make it work in her rooms!
The only thing she could think that was different was her sketch. In her rooms, she’d drawn a detailed picture. She didn’t have that now.
She reached into her pocket, taking out the sheet of paper with the map sketched on it. The back was blank. She fished in the other pocket for the pencil she’d instinctively put there and tried to draw while walking. Impossible. Salas had almost set, and it was too dark. Besides, she couldn’t do good detail while moving and with nothing firm to back the paper. If she stopped and sketched, would that arouse suspicion? Storms, she was so nervous, she had trouble keeping the pencil straight.
She needed a place where she could hide, crouch down, and do a solid sketch. Like one of those doorway nooks she’d passed in the alleyway.
She started to draw a wall.
That she could do while walking. She turned down a side street, the light from an open tavern spilling across her. She ignored the ruckus of laughter and shouts, though a few of those seemed to be directed at her, and drew a simple stone wall on her sheet.
She had no idea if this would work, but she might as well try. She turned in to another alleyway—almost stumbling over the snoring form of a drunk who was missing his shoes—then took off at a run. A short distance in, she ducked into a doorway recess a couple of feet deep. Breathing out her remaining Stormlight, she imagined the wall she’d drawn covering over the doorway.
Everything went black.
The alley had been dark anyway, but now she couldn’t see anything. No phantom light of the moon, no glow from the torchlit tavern at the end of the alley. Did that mean her image was working? She pushed back against the door behind her, pulling off her hat, trying to make sure none of her poked through the illusory wall. She heard a faint scrape outside, boots on stone, and a sound like clothing brushing against the wall across from her. Then nothing.
Shallan remained there, frozen, straining her ears but hearing only the thud of her heart. Finally, she whispered, “Pattern. Are you here?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Go and see if the woman is outside somewhere near.”
He made no sound as he left and then returned. “She is gone.”
Shallan let out the breath she’d been holding. Then, bracing herself, she stepped through the wall. A glow, like that of Stormlight, filled her vision. Then she was out, standing in the alleyway. The illusion behind her swirled briefly like disturbed smoke, then quickly re-formed.
The imitation was actually pretty good. Examined closely, the joints between her stones didn’t align perfectly with the real ones, but that was hard to see at night. Only a few moments later, though, the illusion shattered back to swirling Stormlight and evaporated. She had no Light left to sustain it.
“Your disguise is gone,” Pattern noted.
Red hair. Shallan gasped, then immediately shoved her safehand into her pocket. The darkeyed con woman that Tyn had trained could go about half-clothed, but not Shallan herself. It just wasn’t right.
It was also stupid, and she knew that, but she couldn’t change her feelings. She hesitated briefly, then took off the coat. With that and the hat removed, and with her hair and face changed, she was a different person. She left out the opposite end of the alley from where she assumed the masked woman had gone.
Shallan hesitated, getting her bearings. Where was the mansion? She tried retracing her route mentally, but had trouble fixing her position. She needed something she could see. She took out her wrinkled paper and drew a quick map of the path she’d taken so far.
“I can lead you back to the mansion,” Pattern said.
“I can manage.” Shallan held up the map and nodded.
“Mmm. It is a pattern. You can see this one?”
“Yes.”
“But not the pattern of letters with the spanreed?”
How could she explain? “Those were words,” Shallan said. “The warcamp is a place, something I can draw.” The picture of the path back was clear to her.
“Ah . . .” Pattern said.
She returned to the mansion without incident, but she couldn’t be certain she’d cleanly slipped the tail, nor whether someone from Sebarial’s staff had seen her crossing the grounds and climbing into the window. That was the problem with sneaking about. If nothing seemed to have gone wrong, you rarely knew if it was because you were safe, or if someone had spotted you and just hadn’t done anything. Yet.
After pulling her shutters closed and snapping the drapes into place, Shallan threw herself back onto the plush bed, breathing deeply and trembling.
That was, she thought, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.
And yet she found herself excited, flushed with the thrill of it. Storms! She’d enjoyed that. The tension, the sweat, the talking her way out of being killed, even the chase at the end. What was wrong with her? When she’d tried to steal from Jasnah, every part of the experience had made her sick.
I’m not that girl anymore, Shallan thought, smiling and staring at the ceiling. I haven’t been for weeks now.
She would find a way to investigate this Brightlord Amaram, and she would earn the trust of Mraize so she could find out what he knew. I still need an alliance with the Kholin family, she thought. And the path to that is Prince Adolin. She’d have to find a way to interact with him again as soon as possible, but somehow that didn’t make her look desperate.
The part involving him seemed likely to be the most pleasant of her tasks. Still smiling, she threw herself off the bed and went to see if any food remained on that tray she’d been left.
But as for the Bondsmiths, they had members only three, which number was not uncommon for them; nor did they seek to increase this by great bounds, for during the times of Madasa, only one of their order was in continual accompaniment of Urithiru and its thrones. Their spren was understood to be specific, and to persuade them to grow to the magnitude of the other orders was seen as seditious.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 16, page 14
Kaladin never felt more uncomfortably conspicuous than when visiting Dalinar’s lighteyed training grounds, where all of the other soldiers were highborn.
Dalinar mandated that his soldiers wear uniforms during duty hours, and these men obeyed. In his own blue uniform, Kaladin shouldn’t have felt set off from them, but he did. Theirs were more lavish, with bright buttons up the sides of the fine coats and gemstones set into the buttons. Others ornamented their uniforms with embroidery. Colorful scarves were growing popular.
The lighteyed looked over Kaladin and his men as they entered. As much as the regular soldiers treated his men like heroes—as much as even these officers respected Dalinar and his decisions—their postures were hostile toward him and his.
You are not wanted here, those stares said. Everyone has a place. You’re out of yours. Like a chull in a dining hall.
“May I be relieved from duty for today’s training, sir?” Renarin asked Kaladin. The youth wore a Bridge Four uniform.
Kaladin nodded. His departure made the other bridgemen relax. Kaladin pointed toward three watch positions, and three of his men ran off to stand guard. Moash, Teft, and Yake stayed with him.
Kaladin marched them up to Zahel, who stood at the back of the sand-covered courtyard. Though the other ardents all busied themselves carrying water, towels, or sparring weapons to dueling lighteyes, Zahel had drawn a circle in the sand and was throwing little colored rocks into it.
/>
“I’m taking you up on your offer,” Kaladin said, stepping up to him. “I brought three of my men to learn with me.”
“Didn’t offer to train four of you,” Zahel said.
“I know.”
Zahel grunted. “Do forty laps around the outside of this building at a jog, then report back. You have until I get tired of my game to return.”
Kaladin gestured sharply, and all four of them took off at a run.
“Wait,” Zahel called.
Kaladin stopped, boots crunching sand.
“I was just testing how willing you were to obey me,” Zahel said, throwing a rock into his circle. He grunted, as if pleased with himself. Finally, he turned to look at them. “I suppose I don’t need to toughen you up. But boy, you’ve got red on your ears like I’ve never seen.”
“I— Red on my ears?” Kaladin asked.
“Damnation language. I mean that you feel you’ve got something to prove, that you are spoiling for a fight. It means you’re angry at everything and everyone.”
“Can you blame us?” Moash asked.
“I suppose I can’t. But if I’m going to train you lads, I can’t have your red ears getting in the way. You’re going to listen, and you’re going to do what I say.”
“Yes, Master Zahel,” Kaladin said.
“Don’t call me master,” Zahel said. He thumbed over his shoulder toward Renarin, who was putting on his Shardplate with the assistance of some ardents. “I’m his master. For you lads, I’m just an interested party who wants to help you keep my friends alive. Wait here until I get back.”
He turned to walk toward Renarin. As Yake picked up one of the colored stones Zahel had been throwing, the man said, without looking, “And don’t touch my rocks!”
Yake jumped and dropped the stone.
Kaladin settled back, leaning against one of the pillars that held up the roof overhang, watching Zahel give instruction to Renarin. Syl zipped down and began inspecting the little rocks with a curious expression, trying to figure out what was special about them.
A short time later, Zahel walked past with Renarin, explaining the lad’s training for today. Apparently, he wanted Renarin to eat lunch. Kaladin smiled as some ardents hurriedly carried out a table, dining ware, and a heavy stool that could support a Shardbearer. They even had a tablecloth. Zahel left the bemused Renarin, who sat in his hulking Shardplate with his faceplate up, regarding a full lunch. He awkwardly picked up a fork.
“You’re teaching him to be delicate with his newfound strength,” Kaladin said to Zahel as the man passed back the other way.
“Shardplate is powerful stuff,” Zahel said, not looking at Kaladin. “Controlling it is about more than punching through walls and jumping off buildings.”
“So when do we—”
“Keep waiting.” Zahel wandered off.
Kaladin glanced at Teft, who shrugged. “I like him.”
Yake chuckled. “That’s because he’s almost as grouchy as you are, Teft.”
“I ain’t grouchy,” Teft snapped. “I just have a low threshold for stupidity.”
They waited until Zahel jogged back toward them. The men grew immediately alert, eyes widening. Zahel carried a Shardblade.
They’d been hoping for it. Kaladin had told them they might be able to hold one as part of this training. Their eyes followed that Blade as they’d follow a gorgeous woman taking off her glove.
Zahel stepped up, then slammed the Blade into the sandy ground in front of them. He took his hand off the hilt and waved. “All right. Try it out.”
They stared at it. “Kelek’s breath,” Teft finally said. “You are serious, aren’t you?”
Nearby, Syl had turned from the rocks and stared at the Blade.
“The morning after talking to your captain in the middle of the Damnation night,” Zahel said, “I went to Brightlord Dalinar and the king and asked permission to train you in sword stances. You don’t have to carry swords around or anything, but if you’re going to fight an assassin with a Shardblade, you need to know the stances and how to respond to them.”
He looked down, resting his hand on the Shardblade. “Brightlord Dalinar suggested letting you handle one of the king’s Shardblades. Smart man.”
Zahel removed his hand and gestured. Teft reached out to touch the Shardblade, but Moash seized the thing first, taking it by the hilt and yanking it—too hard—out of the ground. He stumbled backward, and Teft backed away.
“Be careful, now!” Teft barked. “You’ll cut off your own storming arm if you act like a fool.”
“I’m no fool,” Moash said, holding the sword up, pointing it outward. A single gloryspren faded into existence near his head. “It’s heavier than I expected.”
“Really?” Yake said. “Everyone says they’re light!”
“Those are people used to a regular sword,” Zahel said. “If you’ve trained all of your life with a longsword, then pick up something that looks like it has two or three times as much steel to it, you expect it to weigh more. Not less.”
Moash grunted, delicately swiping with the weapon. “From the way the stories are told, I thought it wouldn’t have any weight at all. Like it would be as light as a breeze.” He hesitantly stuck it into the ground. “It has more resistance when it cuts than I thought too.”
“Guess it’s about expectations again,” Teft said, scratching at his beard and waving Yake to have the weapon next. The stout man pulled it free more carefully than Moash had.
“Stormfather, but it feels strange to hold this,” Yake said.
“It’s just a tool,” Zahel said. “A valuable one, but still just a tool. Remember that.”
“It’s more than a tool,” Yake said, swiping it. “I’m sorry, but it just is. I might believe that about a regular sword, but this . . . this is art.”
Zahel shook his head in annoyance.
“What?” Kaladin asked as Yake reluctantly handed the Shardblade over to Teft.
“Men prohibited from using the sword because they’re too lowborn,” Zahel said. “Even after all these years, it strikes me as silly. There’s nothing holy about swords. They’re better in some situations, worse in others.”
“You’re an ardent,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t you supposed to uphold Vorin arts and traditions?”
“Well,” Zahel said, “if you haven’t noticed, I’m not a very good ardent. I just happen to be an excellent swordsman.” He nodded toward the sword. “You going to take a turn?”
Syl looked at Kaladin sharply.
“I’ll pass unless you demand it,” Kaladin said to Zahel.
“Not curious at all how it feels?”
“Those things have killed too many of my friends. I’d rather not have to touch it, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself,” Zahel said. “Brightlord Dalinar’s suggestion was to get you used to these weapons. To take away some of the awe. Half the time a man dies by one of those, it’s because he’s too busy staring to dodge.”
“Yeah,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve seen that. Swing it at me. I need practice facing one down.”
“Sure. Let me get the sword’s guard.”
“No,” Kaladin said. “No guard, Zahel. I need to be afraid.”
Zahel studied Kaladin for a moment, then nodded, walking over to take the sword from Moash—who had begun a second turn swinging it.
Syl zipped past, twisting around the heads of the men, who couldn’t see her. “Thank you,” she said, settling onto Kaladin’s shoulder.
Zahel walked back and fell into a stance. Kaladin recognized it as one of the lighteyed dueling stances, but he didn’t know which one. Zahel stepped forward and swung.
Panic.
Kaladin couldn’t keep it from rising. In an instant, he saw Dallet die—the Shardblade shearing through his head. He saw faces with burned-out eyes reflecting on the Blade’s too-silvery surface.
The Blade passed a few inches in front of him. Zahel stepped into the swing an
d brought the Blade around again in a flowing maneuver. This time it would hit, so Kaladin had to step back.
Storms, those monsters were beautiful.
Zahel swung again, and Kaladin had to jump to the side to dodge. A bit overzealous there, Zahel, he thought. He dodged again, then reacted to a shadow he’d seen from the corner of his eye. He spun, and came face-to-face with Adolin Kholin.
They stared one another in the eyes. Kaladin waited for a wisecrack. Adolin’s eyes flicked toward Zahel and the Shardblade, then turned back to Kaladin. Finally, the prince gave a shallow nod. He turned about and walked toward Renarin.
The implication was simple. The Assassin in White had bested both of them. There was nothing to mock in preparing to fight him again.
Doesn’t mean he’s not a spoiled blusterer, Kaladin thought, turning back to Zahel. The man had waved over a fellow ardent, and was delivering the Shardblade to him.
“I have to go train Prince Renarin,” Zahel said. “Can’t leave him alone all day for you fools. Ivis here will go through some sparring moves with you and let you each face down a Shardblade, as Kaladin has done. Get comfortable with the sight, so you don’t freeze when one comes for you.”
Kaladin and the others nodded. Only after Zahel had trotted away did Kaladin notice that the new ardent, Ivis, was a woman. Though she was an ardent, she kept her hand gloved, so there was some acknowledgment of her gender, even if the flowing ardent clothing and shaved head masked some of the other obvious signs.
A woman with a sword. An odd sight. Of course, was it any odder than darkeyed men holding a Shardblade?
Ivis gave them lengths of wood that, weight and balance wise, were decent approximations of a Shardblade. Like a child’s scribble with chalk could be a decent approximation of a person. Then she put them through several routines, demonstrating the ten Shardblade sword stances.
Kaladin had been looking to kill lighteyes from the moment he’d first touched a spear, and during the later years—before being enslaved—he’d gotten pretty good at it. But those lighteyes he’d hunted on the battlefield hadn’t been terribly skilled. The majority of men who were truly good with a sword had made their way to the Shattered Plains. So the stances were new to him.