“It was the name of one of the orders,” Shallan said, resting her fingers on one of the pillars. “That makes three of us. Windrunner, Bondsmith, Lightweaver.”

“Four,” a voice said from the shadows of the stairwell. Renarin stepped up into the lit room. He looked at them, then shrank back.

“Son?” Dalinar asked.

Renarin remained in the darkness, looking down.

“No spectacles . . .” Dalinar whispered. “You stopped wearing them. I thought you were trying to look like a warrior, but no. Stormlight healed your eyes.”

Renarin nodded.

“And the Shardblade,” Dalinar said, stepping over and taking his son by the shoulder. “You hear screams. That’s what happened to you in the arena. You couldn’t fight because of those shouts in your head from summoning the Blade. Why? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought it was me,” Renarin whispered. “My mind. But Glys, he says . . .” Renarin blinked. “Truthwatcher.”

“Truthwatcher?” Kaladin said, glancing at Shallan. She shook her head. “I walk the winds. She weaves light. Brightlord Dalinar forges bonds. What do you do?”

Renarin met Kaladin’s eyes across the room. “I see.”

“Four orders,” Dalinar said, squeezing Renarin’s shoulder with pride. Storms, the lad was trembling. What made him so worried? Dalinar turned to the others. “The other orders must be returning as well. We need to find those whom the spren have chosen. Quickly, for the Everstorm is upon us, and it is worse than we feared.”

“How?” Shallan asked.

“It will change the parshmen,” Dalinar said. “The Stormfather confirmed it to me. When that storm hits it will bring back the Voidbringers.”

“Damnation,” Kaladin said. “I need to get to Alethkar, to Hearthstone.” He strode toward the exit.

“Soldier?” Dalinar called. “I’ve done what I can to warn our people.”

“My parents are back there,” Kaladin said. “And the citylord of my town has parshmen. I’m going.”

“How?” Shallan asked. “You’ll fly the entire distance?”

“Fall,” Kaladin said. “But yes.” He paused at the doorway out.

“How much Light will that take, son?” Dalinar asked.

“I don’t know,” Kaladin admitted. “A lot, probably.”

Shallan looked to Dalinar. They didn’t have Stormlight to spare. Though those from the warcamps brought recharged spheres, activating the Oathgate took a great deal of Stormlight, depending on how many people were brought. Lighting the lamps in the room at the center of the Oathgate was merely the minimum amount needed to start the device—bringing many people partially drained the infused gemstones they carried as well.

“I will get you what I can, lad,” Dalinar said. “Go with my blessing. Perhaps you will have enough left over to get to the capital afterward and help the people there.”

Kaladin nodded. “I’ll put together a pack. I need to leave within the hour.” He ducked from the room into the stairwell down.

Dalinar sucked in more Stormlight, and felt the last of his wounds retreat. This seemed a thing a man could easily grow accustomed to having.

He sent Renarin with orders to speak with the king and requisition some emerald broams that Kaladin could borrow for his trip. Elhokar had finally arrived, in the company of a group of Herdazians, of all things. One claiming his name needed to be added to the lists of Alethi kings . . .

Renarin went eagerly to obey the order. He seemed to want something he could do.

He’s one of the Knights Radiant, Dalinar thought, watching him go. I’ll probably need to stop sending him on errands.

Storms. It was really happening.

Shallan had walked to the windows. Dalinar stepped up beside her. This was the eastern face of the tower, the flat edge that looked directly toward the Origin.

“Kaladin will only have time to save a few,” Shallan said. “If that many. There are four of us, Brightlord. Only four against a storm full of destruction . . .”

“It is what it is.”

“So many will die.”

“And we will save the ones we can,” Dalinar said. He turned to her. “Life before death, Radiant. It is the task to which we are now sworn.”

She pursed her lips, still looking eastward, but nodded. “Life before death, Radiant.”

“A blind man awaited the era of endings,” Wit said, “contemplating the beauty of nature.”

Silence.

“That man is me,” Wit noted. “I’m not physically blind, just spiritually. And that other statement was actually very clever, if you think about it.”

Silence.

“This is a lot more satisfying,” he said, “when I have intelligent life whom I can render awed, rapt with attention for my clever verbosity.”

The ugly lizard-crab-thing on the next rock over clicked its claw, an almost hesitant sound.

“You’re right, of course,” Wit said. “My usual audience isn’t particularly intelligent. That was also the obvious joke, however, so shame on you.”

The ugly lizard-crab-thing scuttled across its rock, moving onto the other side. Wit sighed. It was night, which was normally a good time for dramatic arrivals and meaningful philosophy. Unfortunately for him, there was nobody here upon which to philosophize or visit, dramatically or otherwise. A small river gurgled nearby, one of the few permanent waterways in this strange land. Extending in all directions were rolling hills, furrowed by passing water and grown over in the valleys with an odd kind of briar. Very few trees here, though farther west a true forest sprouted on the slopes down from the heights.

A couple of songlings made rattling sounds nearby, and he took out his pipes and tried to imitate them. He couldn’t, not exactly. The singing sounds were too like percussion, a zipping rattle—musical, but not flute-like.

Still, the creatures seemed to alternate with him, responding to his music. Who knew? Maybe the things had a rudimentary intelligence. Those horses, the Ryshadium . . . those had surprised him. He was glad that there were still some things that could do that.

He finally set down his pipes and contemplated. An audience of ugly lizard-crab-things and songlings was some audience, at least.

“Art,” he said, “is fundamentally unfair.”

One songling continued to creak.

“You see, we pretend that art is eternal, that there is some kind of persistence to it. A Truth, you might say. Art is art because it is art and not because we say that it is art. I’m not going too quickly for you, am I?”

Creak.

“Good. But if art is eternal and meaningful and independent, why does it depend so damn much upon the audience? You’ve heard the story about the farmer visiting court during the Festival of Depiction, right?”

Creak?

“Oh, it’s not that great a story. Utterly disposable. Standard beginning, the farmer who visits the big city, does something embarrassing, stumbles into the princess and—completely by accident—saves her from getting trampled. Princesses in these stories never do seem to be able to look where they are going. I think perhaps more of them should inquire with a reputable lensmaker and procure a suitable set of spectacles before attempting any further traversal of thoroughfares.

“Anyway, as this story is a comedy, the man is invited to the palace for a reward. Various nonsense follows, ending with the poor farmer wiping himself in the privy with one of the finest paintings ever painted, then strolling out to find all of the lighteyes staring at an empty frame and commenting on how beautiful the work is. Mirth and guffaws. Flourish and bow. Exit before anyone thinks too much about the tale.”

He waited.

Creak?

“Well, don’t you see?” Wit said. “The farmer found the painting near the privy, so assumed it was to be used for such a purpose. The lighteyes found the empty frame in the hall of art, and assumed it to be a masterwork. You may call this a silly story. It is. That does not depreciate its truthfulness. After all, I am frequently quite silly—but I am almost always truthful. Force of habit.

“Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed.

“Conversely, if you gain a reputation for being too good, too skilled . . . beware. The better art will be in their heads, and if you give them an ounce less than they imagined, suddenly you have failed. Suddenly you are useless. A man will find a single coin in the mud and talk about it for days, but when his inheritance comes and is accounted one percent less than he expected, then he will declare himself cheated.”

Wit shook his head, standing up and dusting off his coat. “Give me an audience who have come to be entertained, but who expect nothing special. To them, I will be a god. That is the best truth I know.”

Silence.

“I could use a little music,” he said. “For dramatic effect, you see. Someone is coming, and I want to be prepared to welcome them.”

The songling, obligingly, started its music again. Wit took a deep breath, then struck the appropriate pose—lazy expectation, calculated knowingness, insufferable conceit. After all, he did have a reputation, so he might as well try to live up to it.

The air in front of him blurred, as if heated in a ring near the ground. A streak of light spun about the ring, forming a wall five or six feet high. It faded immediately—really, it was just an afterimage, as if something glowing had spun in the circle very quickly.

In the center of it appeared Jasnah Kholin, standing tall.

Her clothing was ragged, her hair formed into a single utilitarian braid, her face lashed with burns. She’d once worn a fine dress, but that was tattered. She’d hemmed it at the knees and had sewn herself a glove out of something improvised. Curiously, she wore a kind of leather bandolier and a backpack. He doubted she’d had either one when her journey had begun.

She groaned a long groan, then looked to the side, where Wit stood.

He grinned at her.

She stabbed her hand out in the blink of an eye, mist twisting around her arm and snapping into the form of a long, thin sword pointed at Wit’s neck.

He cocked an eyebrow.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“You’ve been making quite a disturbance on the other side,” Wit said. “It’s been a long time since the spren had to deal with someone alive, particularly someone so demanding as yourself.”

She hissed out a breath, then pushed the Shardblade closer. “Tell me what you know, Wit.”

“I once spent the better part of a year inside of a large stomach, being digested.”

She frowned at him.

“That is a thing that I know. You really should be more specific in your threats.” He looked down as she twisted her Shardblade, rotating the tip, still pointed at him. “I’d be surprised if that little knife of yours poses me any real threat, Kholin. You can keep waving it about if you want, though. Perhaps it makes you feel more important.”