“And the Parshendi I killed?”
“We’ve talked about this. It had to be done.”
“And what if one of them was a Surgebinder,” Kaladin said. “With his own honorspren?”
“Parshendi can’t become Surgebin—”
“Just pretend,” Kaladin said, grunting as he tried another thrust. He wasn’t getting it right. “I’d guess all the Parshendi want to do at this point is survive. Storms, the ones involved in Gavilar’s death, they might not even still be alive. Their leaders were executed back in Alethkar, after all. So you tell me, if a common Parshendi who is protecting his people comes up against me, what would his honorspren say? That he’s doing the right thing?”
“I . . .” Syl hunched down. She hated questions like this. “It doesn’t matter. You said you won’t kill the Parshendi anymore.”
“And Amaram? Can I kill him?”
“Is that justice?” Syl asked.
“One form.”
“There’s a difference.”
“What?” Kaladin demanded, thrusting. Storm it! Why couldn’t he make the stupid weapon go where it should?
“Because of what it does to you,” Syl said softly. “Thinking about him changes you. Twists you. You’re supposed to protect, Kaladin. Not kill.”
“You have to kill to protect,” he snapped. “Storms. You’re starting to sound as bad as my father.”
He tried a few more stances, until finally Ivis came over and gave him some corrections. She laughed at his frustration as he held the sword wrong again. “You expected to pick this up in one day?”
He kind of had. He knew the spear; he’d trained long and hard. He thought that maybe, this would all just click.
It didn’t. He kept on anyway, going through the motions, kicking up cold sand, mixing among the lighteyes sparring and practicing their own forms. Eventually, Zahel wandered by.
“Keep at it,” the man said without even inspecting Kaladin’s forms.
“I was under the impression you’d be training me personally,” Kaladin called after him.
“Too much work,” Zahel called back, digging a canteen of something from a bundle of cloth beside one of the pillars. Another ardent had piled his colored rocks there, which made Zahel scowl.
Kaladin jogged up to him. “I saw Dalinar Kholin, while unarmed and unarmored, catch a Shardblade in midair with the flats of his palms.”
Zahel grunted. “Old Dalinar pulled off a lastclap, eh? Good for him.”
“Can you teach me?”
“It’s a stupid maneuver,” Zahel said. “When it works, it’s only because most Shardbearers learn to swing their weapons without as much force as they would a regular blade. And it doesn’t usually work; it usually fails, and you’re dead when it does. Better to focus your time practicing things that will actively help you.”
Kaladin nodded.
“Not going to push me on it?” Zahel asked.
“Your argument is good,” Kaladin said. “Solid soldier’s logic. Makes sense.”
“Huh. Might be hope for you after all.” Zahel took a swig from his canteen. “Now go get back to practicing.”
THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
Shallan poked at the cage, and the colorful creature inside shifted on its perch, cocking its head at her.
It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever seen. It stood on two feet like a person, though its feet were clawed. It was only about as tall as two fists atop one another, but the way it turned its head as it looked at her showed unmistakable personality.
The thing only had a little bit of shell—on the nose and mouth—but the strangest part was its hair. It had bright green hair that covered its entire body. The hair lay flat, as if manicured. As she watched, the creature turned and began to pick at the hair—a large flap of it lifted up, and she could see it grew out of a central spine.
“What does the young lady think of my chicken?” the merchant said proudly, standing with hands clasped behind his back, ample stomach thrust forward like the prow of a ship. Behind, people moved through the fair in a throng. There were so many. Five hundred, perhaps even more, people in the same place.
“Chicken,” Shallan said, poking at the cage with a timid finger. “I’ve eaten chicken before.”
“Not this breed!” the Thaylen man said with a laugh. “Chickens for eating are stupid—this one is smart, almost as smart as a man! It can speak. Listen. Jeksonofnone! Say your name!”
“Jeksonofnone,” the creature said.
Shallan jumped back. The word was mangled by the creature’s inhuman voice, but it was recognizable. “A Voidbringer!” she hissed, safehand to her chest. “An animal that speaks! You’ll bring the eyes of the Unmade upon us.”
The merchant laughed. “These things live all over Shinovar, young lady. If their speech drew the Unmade, the entire country would be cursed!”
“Shallan!” Father stood with his bodyguards where he had been speaking to another merchant across the way. She hurried toward him, looking over her shoulder at the strange animal. Deviant though the thing was, if it could talk, she felt sorry for its being trapped in that cage.
The Middlefest Fair was a highlight of the year. Set during the midpeace—a period opposite the Weeping when there were no storms—it drew people from hamlets and villages all around. Many of the people here were from lands her father oversaw, including lesser lighteyes from families who had ruled the same villages for centuries.
The darkeyes came too, of course, including merchants—citizens of the first and second nahns. Her father didn’t speak of it often, but she knew he found their wealth and station inappropriate. The Almighty had chosen the lighteyes to rule, not these merchants.
“Come along,” Father said to her.
Shallan followed him and his bodyguards through the busy fair, which was laid out on her father’s estates about a half day’s travel from the mansion. The basin was fairly well sheltered, the slopes nearby covered in jella trees. Their strong branches grew spindly leaves—long spikes of pink, yellow, and orange, and so the trees looked like explosions of color. Shallan had read in one of her father’s books that the trees drew in crem, then used it to make their wood hard, like rock.
In the basin itself, most of the trees had been broken down, though some were instead used to hold up canopies dozens of yards wide, tied in place high above. They passed a merchant cursing as a windspren darted through his enclosure, making objects stick together. Shallan smiled, pulling her satchel out from under her arm. There wasn’t time to sketch, however, as her father barreled on toward the dueling grounds where—if this was like previous years—she would spend most of the fair.
“Shallan,” he said, causing her to scurry to catch up. At fourteen, she felt horribly gangly and far too boyish in figure. As womanhood had begun to come upon her, she had learned that she should be embarrassed by her red hair and freckled skin, as they were a mark of an impure heritage. They were traditional Veden colorings, but that was because—in their past—their lines had mixed with the Horneaters up in the peaks.
Some people were proud of the coloring. Not her father, so neither was Shallan.
“You are coming to an age where you must act more like a lady,” Father said. The darkeyes gave them plenty of room, bowing as her father passed. Two of Father’s ardents trailed after them, hands behind their backs, contemplative. “You will need to stop gawking so often. It will not be long before we will want to find a husband for you.”
“Yes, Father,” she said.
“I may need to stop bringing you to events like these,” he said. “All you do is run around and act like a child. You need a new tutor, at the very least.”
He’d scared off the last tutor. The woman had been an expert in languages, and Shallan had been picking up Azish quite well—but she’d left soon after one of Father’s . . . episodes. Shallan’s stepmother had appeared the next day with bruises on her face. Brightness Hasheh, the tutor, had packed her things and fled wit
hout giving notice.
Shallan nodded to her father’s words, but secretly hoped that she’d be able to sneak away and find her brothers. Today she had work to do. She and her father approached the “dueling arena,” which was a grandiose term for a section of roped-off ground where parshmen had dumped half a beach’s worth of sand. Canopied tables had been erected for the lighteyes to sit at, dine, and converse.
Shallan’s stepmother, Malise, was a young woman less than ten years older than Shallan herself. Short of stature with buttonlike features, she sat straight-backed, her black hair brightened by a few streaks of blond. Father settled in beside her in their box; he was one of four men of his rank, fourth dahn, who would be attending the fair. The duelists would be the lesser lighteyes from the surrounding region. Many of them would be landless, and duels would be one of their only ways to gain notoriety.
Shallan sat in the seat reserved for her, and a servant handed her chilled water in a glass. She had barely taken a single sip before someone approached the box.
Brightlord Revilar might have been handsome, if his nose hadn’t been removed in a youthful duel. He wore a wooden replacement, painted black—a strange mixture of covering up the blemish and drawing attention to it at the same time. Silver-haired, well-dressed in a suit of a modern design, he had the distracted look of someone who had left his hearth burning untended back at home. His lands bordered Father’s; they were two of the ten men of similar rank who served under the highprince.
Revilar approached with not one, but two master-servants at his side. Their black-and-white uniforms were a distinction that ordinary servants were denied, and Father eyed them hungrily. He’d tried to hire master-servants. Each had cited his “reputation” and had refused.
“Brightlord Davar,” Revilar said. He did not wait for permission before climbing up the steps into the box. Father and he were the same rank, but everyone knew the allegations against Father—and that the highprince saw them as credible.
“Revilar,” Father said, eyes forward.
“May I sit?” He took a seat beside Father—the one that Helaran, as heir, would have used if he’d been there. Revilar’s two servants took up places behind him. They somehow managed to convey a sense of disapproval of Father without saying anything.
“Is your son going to duel today?” Father asked.
“Actually, yes.”
“Hopefully he can keep all of his parts. We wouldn’t want your experience to become a tradition.”
“Now, now, Lin,” Revilar said. “That is no way to speak to a business associate.”
“Business associate? We have dealings of which I am not aware?”
One of Revilar’s servants, the woman, set a small sheaf of pages on the table before Father. Shallan’s stepmother took them hesitantly, then began to read them out loud. The terms were for an exchange of goods, Father trading some of his breechtree cotton and raw shum to Revilar in exchange for a small payment. Revilar would then take the goods to market for sale.
Father stopped the reading three-quarters of the way through. “Are you delusional? One clearmark a bag? A tenth of what that shum is worth! Considering patrols of roadways and maintenance fees paid back to the villages where the materials are harvested, I would lose spheres on this deal.”
“Oh, it is not so bad,” Revilar said. “I think you will find the arrangement quite agreeable.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m popular.”
Father frowned, growing red-faced. Shallan could remember a time when she’d rarely, if ever, seen him angry. Those days were long, long dead. “Popular?” Father demanded. “What does—”
“You may or may not know,” Revilar said, “that the highprince himself recently visited my estates. It seems he likes what I have been doing for this princedom’s textiles. That, added to my son’s dueling prowess, has drawn attention to my house. I have been invited to visit the highprince in Vedenar one week out of ten, starting next month.”
At times, Father was not the cleverest of men, but he did have a mind for politics. So Shallan thought, at least, though she did so want to believe the best about him. Either way, he saw this implication immediately.
“You rat,” Father whispered.
“You have very few options open to you, Lin,” Revilar said, leaning toward him. “Your house is on the decline, your reputation in shambles. You need allies. I need to look the part of a financial genius to the highprince. We can assist one another.”
Father bowed his head. Outside the box, the first duelists were announced, an inconsequential bout.
“Everywhere I step, I find only corners,” Father whispered. “Slowly, they trap me.”
Revilar pushed the papers toward Shallan’s stepmother once more. “Would you start again? I suspect your husband was not listening carefully the last time.” He glanced at Shallan. “And does the child need to be here?”
Shallan left without a word. It was what she’d wanted anyway, though she did feel bad leaving Father. He didn’t often speak with her, let alone ask for her opinion, but he did seem to be stronger when she was near.
He was so disconcerted that he didn’t even send one of the guards with her. She slipped out of the box, satchel under her arm, and passed through the Davar servants who were preparing her father’s meal.
Freedom.
Freedom was as valuable as an emerald broam to Shallan, and as rare as a larkin. She hurried away, lest her father realize he had given no orders for her to be accompanied. One of the guards at the perimeter—Jix—stepped toward her anyway, but then looked back at the box. He went that way instead, perhaps intending to ask if he should follow.
Best to not be easily found when he returned. Shallan took a step toward the fair, with its exotic merchants and wonderful sights. There would be guessing games and perhaps a Worldsinger telling tales of distant kingdoms. Over the polite clapping of the lighteyes watching the duel behind her, she could hear drums from the common darkeyes along with singing and merriment.
Work first. Darkness lay over her house like a storm’s shadow. She would find the sun. She would.
That meant turning back to the dueling grounds, for now. She rounded the back of the boxes, weaving between parshmen who bowed and darkeyes who gave her nods or bows, depending on their rank. She eventually found a box where several lesser lighteyed families shared space in the shade.
Eylita, daughter of Brightlord Tavinar, sat on the end, just within the sunlight shining through the side of the box. She stared at the duelists with a vapid expression, head slightly cocked, a whimsical smile on her face. Her long hair was a pure black.
Shallan stepped up beside the box and hissed at her. The older girl turned, frowning, then raised hands to her lips. She glanced at her parents, then leaned down. “Shallan!”
“I told you to expect me,” Shallan whispered back. “Did you think about what I wrote you?”
Eylita reached into the pocket of her dress, then slipped out a small note. She grinned mischievously and nodded.
Shallan took the note. “You’ll be able to get away?”
“I’ll need to take my handmaid, but otherwise I can go where I want.”
What would that be like?
Shallan ducked away quickly. Technically, she outranked Eylita’s parents, but age was a funny thing among the lighteyes. Sometimes, the higher-ranked child didn’t seem nearly as important when speaking to adults of a lower dahn. Besides, Brightlord and Brightness Tavinar had been there on that day, when the bastard had come. They were not fond of Father, or his children.
Shallan backed away from the boxes, then turned toward the fair itself. Here, she paused nervously. The Middlefest Fair was an intimidating collage of people and places. Nearby, a group of tenners drank at long tables and placed bets on the matches. The lowest rank of lighteyes, they were barely above darkeyes. They not only had to work for their living, they weren’t even merchants or master craftsmen. They were just . . . people. Helara
n had said there were many of them in the cities. As many as there were darkeyes. That seemed very odd to her.
Odd and fascinating at the same time. She itched to find a corner to watch where she would not be noticed, her sketchpad out and her imagination boiling. Instead, she forced herself to move around the edge of the fair. The tent that her brothers had spoken of would be on the outer perimeter, wouldn’t it?
Darkeyed fairgoers gave her a wide berth, and she found herself afraid. Her father spoke of how a young lighteyed girl could be a target for the brutish people of the lower classes. Surely nobody would harm her here in the open, with so many people about. Still, she clutched her satchel to her chest and found herself trembling as she walked.
What would it be like, to be brave like Helaran? As her mother had been.
Her mother . . .
“Brightness?”
Shallan shook herself. How long had she been standing there, on the path? The sun had moved. She turned sheepishly to find Jix the guard standing behind her. Though he had a gut and rarely kept his hair combed, Jix was strong—she had once seen him pull a cart out of the way when the chull’s hitch broke. He’d been one of her father’s guards for as long as she could remember.
“Ah,” she said, trying to cover her nervousness, “you’re here to accompany me?”
“Well, I was gonna bring you back. . . .”
“Did my father order you to?”
Jix chewed on the yamma root, called cussweed by some, in his cheek. “He was busy.”
“Then you will accompany me?” She shook from the nervousness of saying it.
“I suppose.”
She breathed out a sigh of relief and turned around on the pathway, stone where rockbuds and shalebark had been scraped away. She turned one way, then the other. “Um . . . We need to find the gambling pavilion.”
“That’s not a place for a lady.” Jix eyed her. “Particularly not one of your age, Brightness.”
“Well, I suppose you can go tell my father what I’m doing.” She shuffled from one foot to the other.
“And in the meantime,” Jix said, “you’ll try to find it on your own, won’t you? Go in by yourself if you find it?”