He was smiling.

Warmth. That warmth she felt, a deep glow, was like the joy she had known before. Long ago. Before everything had gone wrong. Before Mother.

The messenger whispered. “Two blind men waited at the end of an era, contemplating beauty. They sat atop the world’s highest cliff, overlooking the land and seeing nothing.”

“Huh?” She looked to him.

“‘Can beauty be taken from a man?’ the first asked the second.

“‘It was taken from me,’ the second replied. ‘For I cannot remember it.’ This man was blinded in a childhood accident. ‘I pray to the God Beyond each night to restore my sight, so that I may find beauty again.’

“‘Is beauty something one must see, then?’ the first asked.

“‘Of course. That is its nature. How can you appreciate a work of art without seeing it?’

“‘I can hear a work of music,’ the first said.

“‘Very well, you can hear some kinds of beauty—but you cannot know full beauty without sight. You can know only a small portion of beauty.’

“‘A sculpture,’ the first said. ‘Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?’

“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.’

“‘And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?’

“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.’

“‘And what of the beauty of a woman,’ the first said. ‘Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without my eyes?’

“‘Very well,’ said the second. ‘But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.’”

The messenger stopped, cocking his head at Shallan.

“What?” she asked.

“What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see . . . what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?”

“I . . .” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?”

“Let us say it does,” the messenger said.

“Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?”

The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?”

“Father is probably wondering where I am. . . .”

“Indulge me,” the messenger said. “I will tell you where your brother is.”

“A wonderful painting, then. That is the most beautiful thing.”

“Lies,” the messenger said. “Tell me the truth. What is it, child? Beauty, to you.”

“I . . .” What was it? “Mother still lives,” she found herself whispering, meeting his eyes.

“And?”

“And we are in the gardens,” Shallan continued. “She is speaking to my father, and he is laughing. Laughing and holding her. We are all there, including Helaran. He never left. The people my mother knew . . . Dreder . . . never came to our home. Mother loves me. She teaches me philosophy, and she shows me how to draw.”

“Good,” the messenger said. “But you can do better than that. What is that place? What does it feel like?”

“It’s spring,” Shallan shot back, growing annoyed. “And the mossvines bloom a vigorous red. They smell sweet, and the air is moist from the morning’s highstorm. Mother whispers, but there is music to her tone, and Father’s laugh doesn’t echo—it rises high into the air, bathing us all.

“Helaran is teaching Jushu swords, and they spar nearby. Wikim laughs as Helaran is struck on the side of the leg. He is studying to be an ardent, as Mother wanted. I am sketching them all, charcoal scratching paper. I feel warm, despite the slight chill to the air. I have a steaming cup of cider beside me, and I taste the sweetness in my mouth from the sip I just took. It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been. I . . .”

She blinked tears. She saw it. Stormfather, but she saw it. She heard her mother’s voice, saw Jushu giving up spheres to Balat as he lost the duel, but laughing as he paid, uncaring of the loss. She could feel the air, smell the scents, hear the sounds of songlings in the brush. Almost, it became real.

Wisps of Light rose before her. The messenger had gotten out a handful of spheres and held them toward her while staring into her eyes. The steamy Stormlight rose between them. Shallan lifted her fingers, the image of her ideal life wrapped around her like a comforter.

No.

She drew back. The misty light faded.

“I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.”

Shadows from her past shifted in the depths, surfacing just briefly toward the light. “Could you help?”

“No. Not now. You aren’t ready, for one, and I have work to be about. Another day. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one, and make a path for the light. The things you fight aren’t completely natural.” He stood up, then bowed to her.

“My brother,” she said.

“He is in Alethkar.”

Alethkar? “Why?”

“Because that is where he feels he is needed, of course. If I see him again, I will give him word of you.” The messenger walked away on light feet, his steps smooth, almost like moves in a dance.

Shallan watched him go, the deep things within her settling again, returning to the forgotten parts of her mind. She realized she had not even asked the man his name.

When Simol was informed of the arrival of the Edgedancers, a concealed consternation and terror, as is common in such cases, fell upon him; although they were not the most demanding of orders, their graceful, limber movements hid a deadliness that was, by this time, quite renowned; also, they were the most articulate and refined of the Radiants.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 20, page 12

Kaladin reached the end of the line of bridgemen. They stood at attention, spears to shoulders, eyes forward. The transformation was marvelous. He nodded under the darkening sky.

“Impressive,” he said to Pitt, the sergeant of Bridge Seventeen. “I’ve rarely seen such a fine platoon of spearmen.”

It was the kind of lie that commanders learned to give. Kaladin didn’t mention how some of the bridgemen shuffled while they stood, or how their maneuvers in formation were sloppy. They were trying. He could sense it in their earnest expressions, and in the way they had begun taking pride in their uniforms, their identity. They were ready to patrol, at least close to the warcamps. He made a mental note to have Teft start taking them out in a rotation with the other two crews that were ready.

Kaladin was proud of them, and he let them know it as the hour stretched long and night arrived. He then dismissed them to their evening meal, which smelled quite different from Rock’s Horneater stew. Bridge Seventeen considered their nightly bean curry to be part of their identity. Individuality through meal choice; Kaladin found that amusing as he moved off into the night, shouldering his spear. He had three more crews to look in on.

The next, Bridge Eighteen, was one of those having problems. Their sergeant, though earnest, didn’t have the presence necessary for a good officer. Or, well, none of the bridgemen had that. He was just particularly weak. Prone to begging instead of ordering, awkward in social situations.

It couldn’t all be blamed on Vet, however. He’d also been given a particularly discordant group of men. Kaladin found the soldiers of Eighteen sitting in isolated bunches, eating their evening meal. No laughter, no camaraderie. They weren’t as solitary as they’d been as bridgemen. Instead, they’d splintered into little cliques who didn’t mingle.

Sergeant Vet called them to order and they rose sluggishly, not bothering to stand in a straight line or salute. Kaladin saw the truth in their eyes. What could he do to them? Surely nothing as bad as their lives had been as bridgemen. So why make an effort?

Kaladin spoke to them of motivation and unity for a time. I’ll need to do another training session in the chasms with this lot, he thought. And if that didn’t work either . . . well, he’d probably have to break them up, stick them in other platoons that were working.

He eventually left Eighteen, shaking his head. They didn’t seem to want to be soldiers. Why had they taken Dalinar’s offer then, instead of leaving?

Because they don’t want to make choices anymore, he thought. Choices can be hard.

He knew how that felt. Storms, but he did. He remembered sitting and staring at a blank wall, too morose to even get up and go kill himself.

He shivered. Those were not days he wanted to remember.

As he made his way toward Bridge Nineteen, Syl floated past on a current of wind in the form of a small patch of mist. She melded into a ribbon of light and zipped around him in circles before coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Everyone else is eating their dinners,” Syl said.

“Good,” Kaladin said.

“That wasn’t a status report, Kaladin,” she said. “It was a point of contention.”

“Contention?” He stopped in the darkness near the barrack of Bridge Nineteen, whose men were doing well, eating around their fire as a group.

“You’re working,” Syl said. “Still.”

“I need to get these men ready.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know something is coming. Those countdowns on the walls . . . Have you seen more of those red spren?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I think so, at least. In the corners of my eyes, watching me. Very infrequently, but there.”

“Something is coming,” Kaladin said. “That countdown points right toward the Weeping. Whatever happens then, I’ll have the bridgemen ready to weather it.”

“Well, you won’t if you drop dead from exhaustion first!” Syl hesitated. “People really can do that, right? I heard Teft saying he felt like he was going to do so.”

“Teft likes to exaggerate,” Kaladin said. “It’s one mark of a good sergeant.”

Syl frowned. “And that last part . . . was a joke?”