The response came in a rasping voice. Shallan couldn’t make it out.

“No, I’m not worried about that one. The old fool sows chaos, but does not reach for the power offered by opportunity. He hides in his insignificant city, listening to its songs, thinking he plays in world events. He has no idea. His is not the position of the hunter. This creature in Tukar, however, is different. I’m not convinced he is human. If he is, he’s certainly not of the local species. . . .”

Mraize continued speaking, but Shallan heard no more as they moved off. A short time later, she heard more hoofbeats.

She waited, water soaking though her coat and trousers. She shivered, satchel in her lap, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Weather lately had been warmer, but sitting in the rain belied that. She waited until her spine complained and her muscles screamed at her. She waited until finally, the boulder broke into luminescent smoke and faded away.

Shallan started. What had happened?

Stormlight, she realized, stretching her legs. She checked the pouch in her pocket. She’d drained every sphere, unconsciously, while holding up the illusion of the boulder.

Hours had passed, the sky darkening as evening approached. Maintaining something simple like the boulder didn’t take much Light, and she didn’t have to consciously think about it to keep it going. That was good to know.

She’d also proven herself a fool again for not even worrying about how much Light she had been using. Sighing, she climbed to her feet. She wobbled, her legs protesting the sudden motion. She took a deep breath, then walked over and peeked around the corner. The pavilion was gone and all signs of the Ghostbloods with it.

“I guess this means I’m walking,” Shallan said, turning back toward the warcamps.

“Did you expect otherwise?” Pattern asked from his place on her coat, sounding genuinely curious.

“No,” Shallan said. “I’m just talking to myself.”

“Mmm. No, you talk to me.”

She walked on into the evening, cold. However, it wasn’t the deadly coldness she’d suffered in the south. This was uncomfortable, but nothing more. If she hadn’t been wet, the air probably would have been pleasant, despite the shade. She passed the time practicing her accents with Pattern—she’d speak, then have him repeat back to her exactly what she’d said, in her voice and tone. Being able to hear it that way helped a great deal.

She had the Alethi accent down, she was certain. That was good, since Veil pretended to be Alethi. That one was easy, however, as Veden and Alethi were so similar you could almost understand one by knowing the other.

Her Horneater accent was quite good too, in both Alethi and Veden. She was getting better and not overdoing it, as Tyn had suggested. Her Bav accent in both Veden and Alethi was passable, and through most of the time walking back, she practiced speaking both tongues with a Herdazian accent. Palona gave her a good example of this in Alethi, and Pattern could repeat to her things the woman had said, which was helpful for practice.

“What I need to do,” Shallan said, “is train you to speak along with my images.”

“You should have them speak themselves,” Pattern said.

“Can I do that?”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . well, I use Light for the illusion, and so they create an imitation of light. Makes sense. I don’t use sound to make them, though.”

“This is a Surge,” Pattern said. “Sound is a part of it. Mmm . . . Cousins of one another. Very similar. It can be done.”

“How?”

“Mmmm. Somehow.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I am glad . . .” He trailed off. “Lie?”

“Yup.” Shallan stuffed her safehand into her pocket, which was also wet, and continued walking through patches of grass that pulled away in front of her. Distant hills showed lavis grain growing in orderly fields of polyps, though she didn’t see any farmers at this hour.

At least it had stopped raining. She did still like rain, though she hadn’t considered how unpleasant it might be to have to walk a long distance in it. And—

What was that?

She pulled up short. A clump of something dark shadowed the ground ahead of her. She approached hesitantly, and found that she could smell smoke. The sodden, wet kind of smoke you smelled after a campfire was doused.

Her carriage. She could make it out now, partially burned in the night. The rains had put out the fire; it hadn’t burned long. They’d probably started the blaze on the inside, where it would have been dry.

It was certainly the one she’d hired. She recognized the trim on the wheels. She approached hesitantly. Well, she’d been right in her worry. It was a good thing she’d stayed behind. Something nagged at her. . . .

The coachman!

She ran ahead, fearing the worst. His corpse was there, lying beside the broken carriage, staring up at the sky. His throat had been slit. Beside him, his parshman porters lay dead in a pile.

Shallan sat back on the wet stones, feeling sick, hand to her mouth. “Oh . . . Almighty above . . .”

“Mmm . . .” Pattern hummed, somehow conveying a morose tone.

“They’re dead because of me,” Shallan whispered.

“You did not kill them.”

“I did,” Shallan said. “As sure as if I’d held the knife. I knew the danger I was going into. The coachman didn’t.”

And the parshmen. How did she feel about that? Voidbringers, yes, but it was difficult not to feel sick at what had been done.

You’ll cause something far worse than this if you prove what Jasnah claims, part of her said.

Briefly, while watching Mraize’s excitement over her art, she’d wanted to like the man. Well, she’d best remember this moment. He’d allowed these murders. He might not have been the one to slit the coachman’s throat, but he’d all but assured the others it was all right to remove her if they could.

They’d burned the carriage to make it look like bandits had been behind this, but no bandits would come this close to the Shattered Plains.

You poor man, she thought toward the coachman. But if she hadn’t arranged a ride, she wouldn’t have been able to hide as she did while the coach laid a false trail. Storms! How could she have handled this so nobody died? Would it have been possible?

She eventually forced herself to her feet and, with slumped shoulders, continued to walk back toward the warcamps.

The considerable abilities of the Skybreakers for making such amounted to an almost divine skill, for which no specific Surge or spren grants capacity, but however the order came to such an aptitude, the fact of it was real and acknowledged even by their rivals.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 28, page 3

“Great. You’re the one guarding me today?”

Kaladin turned as Adolin came out of his room. The prince wore a sharp uniform, as always. Monogrammed buttons, boots that cost more than some houses, side sword. An odd choice for a Shardbearer, but Adolin probably wore it as an ornament. His hair was a mess of blond sprinkled with black.

“I don’t trust her, princeling,” Kaladin said. “Foreign woman, secret betrothal, and the only person who could vouch for her is dead. She could be an assassin, and that means putting you under the watch of the best I have.”

“Humble, aren’t we?” Adolin said, striding down the stone hallway, Kaladin falling into step beside him.

“No.”

“That was a joke, bridgeboy.”

“My mistake. I was under the impression that jokes were supposed to be funny.”

“Only to people with a sense of humor.”

“Ah, of course,” Kaladin said. “I traded in my sense of humor long ago.”

“And what did you get for it?”

“Scars,” Kaladin said softly.

Adolin’s eyes flicked toward the brands on Kaladin’s forehead, though most would be obscured by hair. “This is great,” Adolin said under his breath. “Just great. I’m so happy you’re coming along.”

At the end of the hallway, they stepped into daylight. Not much of it, though. The sky was still overcast from the rains of the last few days.

They emerged into the warcamp. “We collecting any other guards?” Adolin asked. “Usually there’s two of you.”

“Just me today.” Kaladin was short-manned, with the king under his watch and with Teft taking the new recruits out patrolling again. He had two or three men on everyone else, but Adolin he figured he could watch on his own.

A carriage waited, pulled by two mean-looking horses. All horses looked mean, with those too-knowing eyes and sudden movements. Unfortunately, a prince couldn’t arrive in a carriage pulled by chulls. A footman opened the door for Adolin, who settled into the confines. The footman closed the door, then climbed into a place at the back of the carriage. Kaladin prepared to swing up into the seat beside the carriage driver, then stopped.

“You!” he said, pointing at the driver.

“Me!” the King’s Wit replied from where he sat holding the reins. Blue eyes, black hair, black uniform. What was he doing driving the carriage? He wasn’t a servant, was he?

Kaladin clambered cautiously up into his seat, and Wit shook the reins, prodding the horses into motion.

“What are you doing here?” Kaladin asked him.

“Trying to find mischief,” Wit replied cheerfully, as the horses’ hooves rang against the stone. “Have you been practicing with my flute?”

“Uh . . .”

“Don’t tell me you left it in Sadeas’s camp when you moved out.”

“Well—”

“I said not to tell me,” Wit replied. “You don’t need to, since I already know. A shame. If you knew the history of that flute, it would make your brain flip upside-down. And by that, I mean that I would shove you off the carriage for having spied on me.”

“Uh . . .”

“Eloquent today, I see.”

Kaladin had left the flute behind. When he had gathered the bridgemen left in Sadeas’s camp—the wounded from Bridge Four, and the members of the other bridge crews—he’d been focused on people, not things. He hadn’t bothered with his little bundle of possessions, forgetting that the flute was among them.

“I’m a soldier, not a musician,” Kaladin said. “Besides, music is for women.”

“All people are musicians,” Wit countered. “The question is whether or not they share their songs. As for music being feminine, it’s interesting that the woman who wrote that treatise—the one you all practically worship in Alethkar—decided that all of the feminine tasks involve sitting around having fun while all the masculine ones involve finding someone to stick a spear in you. Telling, eh?”

“I guess so.”

“You know, I’m working very hard to come up with engaging, clever, meaningful points of interest to offer you. I can’t help thinking you’re not upholding your side of the conversation. It’s a little like playing music for a deaf man. Which I might try doing, as it sounds fun, if only someone hadn’t lost my flute.”