“Yes.”

“And what do you do if the hand is festering, threatening the entire body? Do you wait and hope it gets better, or do you act?”

Kaladin didn’t reply.

“You control the King’s Guard now, Kaladin,” Graves said. “We will need an opening, a time when no guards will be hurt, to strike. We didn’t want the actual blood of the king on our hands, wanted to make this seem an accident, but I have realized this is cowardly. I will do the deed myself. All I want is an opening, and Alethkar’s suffering will be over.”

“It will be better for the king this way,” Danlan said. “He is dying a slow death on that throne, like a drowning man far from land. Best to be done with it quickly.”

Kaladin stood up. Moash rose hesitantly.

Graves looked at Kaladin.

“I will consider,” Kaladin said.

“Good, good,” Graves said. “You can get back to us through Moash. Be the surgeon this kingdom needs.”

“Come on,” Kaladin said to Moash. “The others will be wondering where we got to.”

He walked out, Moash following after making a few hasty farewells. Kaladin, honestly, expected one of them to try to stop him. Didn’t they worry that he’d turn them in, as he’d threatened?

They let him go. Back out into the clattering, chattering common room.

Storms, he thought. I wish their arguments hadn’t been so good. “How did you meet them?” Kaladin asked as Moash jogged up to join him.

“Rill, that’s the fellow who was sitting at the table, he was a mercenary on some of the caravans I worked before ending up in the bridge crews. He came to me once we were free of slavery.” Moash took Kaladin by the arm, halting him before they got back to their table. “They’re right. You know they are, Kal. I can see it in you.”

“They’re traitors,” Kaladin said. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“You said you’d consider!”

“I said that,” Kaladin said softly, “so that they’d let me leave. We have a duty, Moash.”

“Is it greater than the duty to the country itself?”

“You don’t care about the country,” Kaladin snapped. “You just want to pursue your grudge.”

“All right, fine. But Kaladin, did you notice? Graves treats all men the same, regardless of eye color. He doesn’t care that we’re darkeyed. He married a darkeyed woman.”

“Really?” Kaladin had heard of wealthy darkeyes marrying lowborn lighteyes, but never anyone as high-dahn as a Shardbearer.

“Yeah,” Moash said. “One of his sons is even a one-eye. Graves doesn’t give a storm about what other people think of him. He does what is right. And in this case, it’s—” Moash glanced around. They were now surrounded by people. “It’s what he said. Someone has to do it.”

“Don’t speak of this to me again,” Kaladin said, pulling his arm free and walking back toward the table. “And don’t meet with them anymore.”

He sat back down, Moash slinking into his place, annoyed. Kaladin tried to get himself to rejoin the conversation with Rock and Lopen, but he just couldn’t.

All around him, people laughed or shouted.

Be the surgeon this kingdom needs. . . .

Storms, what a mess.

Yet, were the orders not disheartened by so great a defeat, for the Lightweavers provided spiritual sustenance; they were enticed by those glorious creations to venture on a second assault.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 21, page 10

“It doesn’t make sense,” Shallan said. “Pattern, these maps are baffling.”

The spren hovered nearby in his three-dimensional form full of twisting lines and angles. Sketching him had proven difficult, as whenever she looked closely at a section of his form, she found that it had so much detail as to defy proper depiction.

“Mmm?” Pattern asked in his humming voice.

Shallan climbed off her bed and tossed the book onto her white-painted writing desk. She knelt beside Jasnah’s trunk, digging through it before coming out with a map of Roshar. It was ancient, and not terribly accurate; Alethkar was depicted as far too large and the world as a whole was misshapen, with trade routes emphasized. It clearly predated modern methods of survey and cartography. Still, it was important, for it showed the Silver Kingdoms as they had supposedly existed during the time of the Knights Radiant.

“Urithiru,” Shallan said, pointing toward a shining city depicted on the map as the center of everything. It wasn’t in Alethkar, or Alethela as it had been known at the time. The map put it in the middle of the mountains near what might have been modern Jah Keved. However, Jasnah’s annotations said other maps from the time placed it elsewhere. “How could they not know where their capital was, the center of the orders of knights? Why does every map argue with its fellows?”

“Mmmmmm . . .” Pattern said, thoughtful. “Perhaps many had heard of it, but never visited.”

“Cartographers as well?” Shallan asked. “And the kings who commissioned these maps? Surely some of them had been to the place. Why on Roshar would it be so difficult to pinpoint?”

“They wished to keep its location secret, perhaps?”

Shallan stuck the map to the wall using some weevilwax from Jasnah’s supplies. She backed away, folding her arms. She hadn’t dressed for the day yet, and wore her dressing gown, hands uncovered.

“If that’s the case,” Shallan said, “they did too good a job of it.” She dug out a few other maps from the time, created by other kingdoms. In each, Shallan noted, the country of origin was presented far larger than it should have been. She stuck these to the wall too.

“Each shows Urithiru in a different location,” Shallan said. “Notably close to their own lands, yet not in their lands.”

“Different languages on each,” Pattern said. “Mmm . . . There are patterns here.” He started to try sounding them out.

Shallan smiled. Jasnah had told her that several of them were thought to have been written in the Dawnchant, a dead language. Scholars had been trying for years to—

“Behardan King . . . something I do not understand . . . order, perhaps . . .” Pattern said. “Map? Yes, that would likely be map. So the next is perhaps to draw . . . draw . . . something I do not understand . . .”

“You’re reading it?”

“It is a pattern.”

“You’re reading the Dawnchant.”

“Not well.”

“You’re reading the Dawnchant!” Shallan exclaimed. She scrambled up to the map beside which Pattern hovered, then rested her fingers on the script at the bottom. “Behardan, you said? Maybe Bajerden . . . Nohadon himself.”

“Bajerden? Nohadon? Must people have so many names?”

“One is honorific,” Shallan said. “His original name wasn’t considered symmetrical enough. Well, I guess it wasn’t really symmetrical at all, so the ardents gave him a new one centuries ago.”

“But . . . the new one isn’t symmetrical either.”

“The h sound can be for any letter,” Shallan said absently. “We write it as the symmetrical letter, to make the word balance, but add a diacritical mark to indicate it sounds like an h so the word is easier to say.”

“That— One can’t just pretend that a word is symmetrical when it isn’t!”

Shallan ignored his sputtering, instead staring at the alien script of what was supposedly the Dawnchant. If we do find Jasnah’s city, Shallan thought, and if it does have records, they might be in this language. “We need to see how much of the Dawnchant you can translate.”

“I did not read it,” Pattern said, annoyed. “I postulated a few words. The name I could translate because of the sounds of the cities above.”

“But those aren’t written in the Dawnchant!”

“The scripts are derived from one another,” Pattern said. “Obviously.”

“So obvious that no human scholar has ever figured it out.”

“You are not as good with patterns,” he said, sounding smug. “You are abstract. You think in lies and tell them to yourselves. That is fascinating, but it is not good for patterns.”

You are abstract . . . Shallan rounded the bed and slipped a book from the pile there, one written by the scholar Ali-daughter-Hasweth of Shinovar. The Shin scholars were among the most interesting to read, as their perspectives on the rest of Roshar could be so frank, so different.

She found the passage she wanted. Jasnah had highlighted it in her notes, so Shallan had sent out for the full book. Sebarial’s stipend to her—which he was paying—came in very handy. Vathah and Gaz, by her request, had spent the last few days visiting book merchants asking after Words of Radiance, the book Jasnah had given her just before dying. So far no luck, though one merchant had claimed he might be able to order it in from Kholinar.

“Urithiru was the connection to all nations,” she read from the Shin writer’s work. “And, at times, our only path to the outside world, with its stones unhallowed.” She looked up at Pattern. “What does that mean to you?”

“It means what it says,” Pattern replied, still hovering beside the maps. “That Urithiru was well connected. Roads, perhaps?”

“I’ve always read the phrase metaphorically. Connected in purpose, in thought, and scholarship.”

“Ah. Lies.”

“What if it’s not a metaphor? What if it’s like what you say?” She rose and crossed the room toward the maps, resting her fingers on Urithiru at the center. “Connected . . . but not by roads. Some of these maps don’t have any roads leading to Urithiru at all. They all place it in the mountains, or at least the hills. . . .”

“Mmm.”

“How do you reach a city if not by roads?” Shallan asked. “Nohadon could walk there, or so he claimed. But others do not speak of riding, or walking, to Urithiru.” True, there were few accounts of people visiting the city. It was a legend. Most modern scholars considered it a myth.

She needed more information. She scrambled over to Jasnah’s trunk, digging out one of her notebooks. “She said that Urithiru wasn’t on the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said, “but what if the pathway to it is here? Not an ordinary pathway, though. Urithiru was the city of Surgebinders. Of ancient wonders, like Shardblades.”

“Mm . . .” Pattern said softly. “Shardblades are no wonder . . .”

Shallan found the reference she was searching for. It wasn’t the quote she found curious, but Jasnah’s annotation of it. Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales.

Instantaneous travel. Oathgates.