“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. He’s been dipping into the wine, now that Dalinar is gone. Not the orange stuff, either. I’ll tell him you’re too wounded to come.”

Kaladin nodded.

“Kal,” Moash said. “We can trust you, right? You’re not having second thoughts?”

“You said it yourself,” Kaladin said. “I don’t have to do anything. I just have to stay away.” What could I do, anyway? Wounded, with no spren?

Everything was in motion. It was too far along for him to stop.

“Great,” Moash said. “You heal up, all right?”

Moash walked out, leaving Kaladin in the darkness again.

AhbuttheywereleftbehindItisobviousfromthenatureofthebondButwherewherewherewhereSetoffObviousRealizationlikeapricityTheyarewiththeShinWemustfindoneCanwemaketouseaTruthlessCanwecraftaweapon

—From the Diagram, Floorboard 17: paragraph 2, every second letter starting with the first

In the darkness, Shallan’s violet spheres gave life to the rain. Without the spheres, she couldn’t see the drops, only hear their deaths upon the stones and the cloth of her pavilion. With the light, each falling speck of water flashed briefly, like starspren.

She sat at the edge of the pavilion, as she liked to watch the rainfall between bouts of sketching, while the other scholars sat closer to the center. So did Vathah and a couple of his soldiers, watching over her like nesting skyeels with a single pup. It amused her that they’d grown so protective; they seemed actively proud to be her soldiers. She’d honestly expected them to run off after gaining their clemency.

Four days into the Weeping, and she still enjoyed the weather. Why did the soft sound of gentle rain make her feel more imaginative? Around her, creationspren slowly vanished, most having taken the shapes of things about the camp. Swords that sheathed and unsheathed repeatedly, tiny tents that untied and blew in unseen wind. Her picture was of Jasnah as she’d been on that night just over a month ago, when Shallan had last seen her. Leaning upon the desk of a darkened ship’s cabin, hand pushing back hair freed from its customary twists and braids. Exhausted, overwhelmed, terrified.

The drawing didn’t depict a single faithful Memory, not as Shallan usually did them. This was a re-creation of what she remembered, an interpretation that was not exact. Shallan was proud of it, as she’d captured Jasnah’s contradictions.

Contradictions. Those were what made people real. Jasnah exhausted, yet somehow still strong—stronger, even, because of the vulnerability she revealed. Jasnah terrified, yet also brave, for one allowed the other to exist. Jasnah overwhelmed, yet powerful.

Shallan had recently been trying to do more drawings like this—ones synthesized from her own imaginings. Her illusions would suffer if she could only reproduce what she’d experienced. She needed to be able to create, not just copy.

The last creationspren faded away, this one imitating a puddle that was being splashed by a boot. Her sheet of paper dimpled as Pattern moved up onto it.

He sniffed. “Useless things.”

“The creationspren?”

“They don’t do anything. They flit around and watch, admire. Most spren have a purpose. These are merely attracted by someone else’s purpose.”

Shallan sat back, thinking on that, as Jasnah had taught her. Nearby, the scholars and ardents argued about how large Stormseat had been. Navani had done her part well—better than Shallan could have hoped. The army’s scholars now worked at Shallan’s command.

Around her in the night, an uncountable array of lights both near and far indicated the breadth of the army. The rain continued to sprinkle down, catching the purple spherelight. She had chosen all spheres of one color.

“The artist Eleseth,” Shallan observed to Pattern, “once did an experiment. She set out only ruby spheres, in their strength, to light her studio. She wanted to see what effect the all-red light would have upon her art.”

“Mmmm,” Pattern said. “To what result?”

“At first, during a painting session, the color of light affected her strongly. She would use too little red, and fields of blossoms would look washed out.”

“Not unexpected.”

“The interesting thing, however, was what happened if she continued working,” Shallan said. “If she painted for hours by that light, the effects diminished. The colors of her reproductions grew more balanced, the pictures of flowers more vivid. She eventually concluded that her mind compensated for the colors she saw. Indeed, if she switched the color of the light during a session, she’d continue for a time to paint as if the room were still red, reacting against the new color.”

“Mmmmmm . . .” Pattern said, content. “Humans can see the world as it is not. It is why your lies can be so strong. You are able to not admit that they are lies.”

“It frightens me.”

“Why? It is wonderful.”

To him, she was a subject of study. For a moment, she understood how Kaladin must have seen Shallan as she spoke of the chasmfiend. Admiring its beauty, the form of its creation, oblivious to the present reality of its danger.

“It frightens me,” Shallan said, “because we all see the world by some kind of light personal to us, and that light changes our perception. I don’t see clearly. I want to, but I don’t know if I ever truly can.”

Eventually, a pattern broke through the sound of rain, and Dalinar Kholin entered the tent. Straight-backed and greying, he looked more like a general than a king. She had no sketches of him. It seemed a gross omission on her part, so she took a Memory of him walking into the pavilion, an aide holding an umbrella for him.

He strode up to Shallan. “Ah, here you are. The one who has taken command of this expedition.”

Shallan belatedly scrambled to her feet and bowed. “Highprince?”

“You have co-opted my scribes and cartographers,” Dalinar said, sounding amused. “They hum of it like the rainfall. Urithiru. Stormseat. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t. Brightness Navani did.”

“She says you convinced her.”

“I . . .” Shallan blushed. “I was really just there, and she changed her mind . . .”

Dalinar nodded curtly to the side, and his aide stepped over to the debating scholars. The aide spoke with them softly, and they rose—some quickly, others with reluctance—and departed into the rain, leaving their papers. The aide followed them, and Vathah looked to Shallan. She nodded, excusing him and the other guards.

Soon Shallan and Dalinar were alone in the pavilion.

“You told Navani that Jasnah had discovered the secrets of the Knights Radiant,” Dalinar said.

“I did.”

“You’re certain that Jasnah didn’t mislead you somehow,” Dalinar said, “or allow you to mislead yourself—that would be far more like her.”

“Brightlord, I . . . I don’t think that is . . .” She took a breath. “No. She did not mislead me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I saw it,” Shallan said. “I witnessed what she did, and we spoke of it. Jasnah Kholin did not use a Soulcaster. She was one.”

Dalinar folded his arms, looking past Shallan into the night. “I think I’m supposed to refound the Knights Radiant. The first man I thought I could trust for the job turned out to be a murderer and a liar. Now you tell me that Jasnah might have had actual power. If that is true, then I am a fool.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In naming Amaram,” Dalinar said. “I did what I thought was my task. I wonder now if I was mistaken all along, and that refounding them was never my duty. They might be refounding themselves, and I am an arrogant meddler. You have given me a great deal to think upon. Thank you.”

He did not smile as he said it; in fact, he looked severely troubled. He turned to leave, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Brightlord Dalinar?” Shallan said. “What if your task wasn’t to refound the Knights Radiant?”

“That is what I just said,” Dalinar replied.

“What if instead, your task was to gather them?”

He looked back to her, waiting. Shallan felt a cold sweat. What was she doing?

I have to tell someone sometime, she thought. I can’t do as Jasnah did, holding it all. This is too important. Was Dalinar Kholin the right person?

Well, she certainly couldn’t think of anyone better.

Shallan held out her palm, then breathed in, draining one of her spheres. Then she breathed back out, sending a cloud of shimmering Stormlight into the air between herself and Dalinar. She formed it into a small image of Jasnah, the one she’d just drawn, on top of her palm.

“Almighty above,” Dalinar whispered. A single awespren, like a ring of blue smoke, burst out above him, spreading like the ripple from a stone dropped in a pond. Shallan had seen such a spren only a handful of times in her life.

Dalinar stepped closer, reverent, leaning down to inspect Shallan’s image. “Can I?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

“Yes.”

He touched the image, causing it to fuzz back into shifting light. When he withdrew his finger, the image re-formed.

“It’s just an illusion,” Shallan said. “I can’t create anything real.”

“It’s amazing,” Dalinar said, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the pattering rain. “It is wonderful.” He looked up at her, and there were—shockingly—tears in his eyes. “You’re one of them.”

“Maybe, kind of?” Shallan said, feeling awkward. This man, so commanding, so much larger than life, should not be crying in front of her.

“I’m not mad,” he said, more to himself, it seemed. “I had decided that I wasn’t, but that’s not the same as knowing. It’s all true. They’re returning.” He tapped at the image again. “Jasnah taught you this?”

“I more stumbled into it on my own,” Shallan said. “I think I was led to her so she could teach me. We didn’t have much time for that, unfortunately.” She grimaced, withdrawing the Stormlight, heart beating quickly because of what she’d done.

“I need to give you the golden cape,” Dalinar said, standing up straight, wiping his eyes and growing firm of voice again. “Put you in charge of them. So we—”

“Me?” Shallan yelped, thinking of what that would mean to her alternate identity. “No, I can’t! I mean, Brightlord, sir, what I can do is mostly useful if nobody knows it’s possible. I mean, if everyone is looking for my illusions, I’ll never fool them.”

“Fool them?” Dalinar said.

Perhaps the not best choice of words for Dalinar.

“Brightlord Dalinar!”

Shallan spun, alert, suddenly worried that someone had seen what she did. A lithe messenger approached the tent, dripping wet, locks of hair undone from her braids and sticking to her face. “Brightlord Dalinar! Parshendi spotted, sir!”