“My word—”

“Your word means nothing, woman!” he shouted, grip tensing.

“You should let her go,” Pattern said calmly from behind him.

Vathah spun, looking about, but they weren’t near anyone in particular. Shallan spotted Pattern on the back of Vathah’s uniform as he turned.

“Who said that?” Vathah demanded.

“I heard nothing,” Shallan said, somehow managing to sound calm.

“You should let her go,” Pattern repeated.

Vathah looked around again, then back at Shallan, who met his gaze with a level stare. She even forced out a smile.

He let go of her and wiped his hand on his trousers, then retreated. Pattern slipped down his back and leg onto the ground, then skimmed toward Shallan.

“That one will be trouble,” Shallan said, rubbing the place where he’d gripped her.

“Is this a figure of speech?” Pattern asked.

“No. I mean what I said.”

“Curious,” Pattern said, watching Vathah retreat, “because I think he already is trouble.”

“True.” She continued her way toward Tvlakv, who sat on the seat of his wagon with hands clasped before him. He smiled toward Shallan as she arrived, though the expression seemed particularly thin on him today.

“So,” he asked conversationally, “were you in on it from the start?”

“In on what?” Shallan asked wearily, shooing Tag away so she could talk to Tvlakv in private.

“Bluth’s plan.”

“Please, do tell.”

“Obviously,” Tvlakv said, “he was in league with the deserters. That first night, when he came running back to the camp, he’d met with them and promised to let them take us if he could share in the wealth. That was why they did not immediately kill you two when you went to speak with them.”

“Oh?” Shallan asked. “And if that were the case, why did Bluth come back and warn us that night? Why did he flee with us, instead of just letting his ‘friends’ kill us right then?”

“Perhaps he only met with a few of them,” Tvlakv said. “Yes, they lit fires on that hillside in the night to make us think there were more, and then his friends went to gather a larger crowd . . . And . . .” He deflated. “Storms. That doesn’t make any sense. But how, why? We should be dead.”

“The Almighty preserved us,” Shallan said.

“Your Almighty is a farce.”

“You should hope he is,” Shallan said, walking to the back of Tag’s wagon nearby. “For if he is not, then Damnation itself awaits men like you.” She inspected the cage. Five slaves in grimy clothing huddled inside, each one looking alone, though they were crammed in close.

“These are mine now,” Shallan told Tvlakv.

“What!” he stood up on his seat. “You—”

“I saved your life, you oily little man,” Shallan said. “You will give me these slaves in payment. Dues in recompense for my soldiers protecting you and your worthless life.”

“This is robbery.”

“This is justice. If it bothers you, submit a grievance with the king in the Shattered Plains, once we arrive.”

“I’m not going to the Shattered Plains,” Tvlakv spat. “You have someone else to convey you now, Brightness. I’m heading south, as I originally intended.”

“Then you’ll do so without these,” Shallan said, using her key—the one he had given her to get into her wagon—to open the cage. “You will give me their writs of slavery. And the Stormfather help you if not everything is in order, Tvlakv. I’m very good at spotting a forgery.”

She hadn’t ever even seen a writ of slavery, and wouldn’t know how to tell if one was faked. She didn’t care. She was tired, frustrated, and eager to be done with this night.

One by one, five hesitant slaves stepped from the wagon, shaggy bearded and shirtless. Her trip with Tvlakv had not been pleasant, but it had been luxurious compared to what these men had been through. Several glanced at the darkness nearby, as if eager.

“You may run if you wish,” Shallan said, softening her tone. “I will not hunt you. I need servants, however, and I will pay you well. Six firemarks a week if you agree to put five of them toward paying down your slave debt. One if you don’t.”

One of the men cocked his head. “So . . . we take away the same amount either way? What kind of sense does that make?”

“The best kind,” Shallan said, turning to Tvlakv, who sat stewing on the side of his seat. “You have three wagons but only two drivers. Will you sell me the third wagon?” She wouldn’t need the chull—Macob would have an extra she could use, since several of his wagons had burned.

“Sell the wagon? Bah! Why not just steal it from me?”

“Stop being a child, Tvlakv. Do you want my money or not?”

“Five sapphire broams,” he snapped. “And it’s a steal at that price; don’t you argue otherwise.”

She didn’t know if it was or not, but she could afford it, with the spheres she had, even if most of them were dun.

“You can’t have my parshmen,” Tvlakv snapped.

“You can keep them,” Shallan said. She would need to talk to the caravan master about shoes and clothing for her servants.

As she walked off to see if she could use an extra chull of Macob’s, she passed a group of the caravan workers waiting to the side of one of the bonfires. The deserters threw the last body—one of their own—into the flames, then stepped back, wiping brows.

One of the darkeyed caravan women stepped up, holding out a sheet of paper to a former deserter. He took it, scratching at his beard. He was the shorter, one-eyed man who’d spoken during her speech. He held up the sheet to the others. It was a prayer made from familiar runes, but not one of mourning, as Shallan would have expected to see. It was a prayer of thanks.

The former deserters gathered in front of the flames and looked at the prayer. Then they turned and looked outward, seeing—as if for the first time—the two dozen people standing there and watching. Silent in the night. Some had tears on their cheeks; some held the hands of children. Shallan had not noticed the children before, but was not surprised to see them. Caravan workers would spend their lives traveling, and their families would travel with them.

Shallan stopped just beyond the caravaneers, mostly hidden in the darkness. The deserters didn’t seem to know how to react, surrounded by that constellation of thankful eyes and tearful appreciation. Finally, they burned the prayer. Shallan bowed her head as they did, as did most of those watching.

She left them standing taller, watching the ashes of that prayer rise toward the Almighty.

Stormform is said to cause

A tempest of winds and showers,

Beware its powers, beware its powers.

Though its coming brings the gods their night,

It obliges a bloodred spren.

Beware its end, beware its end.

—From the Listener Song of Winds, 4th stanza

Kaladin watched the window shutters. Motion came in bursts.

First stillness. Yes, he could hear a distant howling, the wind passing through some hollow, but nothing nearby.

A tremble. Then wood rattling wickedly in its frame. Violent shaking, with water seeping in at the joints. Something was out there, in the dark chaos of the highstorm. It thrashed and pounded at the window, wanting in.

Light flashed out there, glistening through the drops of water. Another flash.

Then the light stayed. Steady, like glowing spheres, just outside. Faintly red. For some reason he couldn’t explain, Kaladin had the impression of eyes.

Transfixed, he raised his hand toward the latch, to open it and see.

“Someone really needs to fix that loose shutter,” King Elhokar said, annoyed.

The light faded. The rattling stopped. Kaladin blinked, lowering his hand.

“Someone remind me to ask Nakal to see to it,” Elhokar said, pacing behind his couch. “The shutter shouldn’t leak. This is my palace, not a village tavern!”

“We’ll make sure it’s seen to,” Adolin said. He sat in a chair beside the hearth, flipping through a book filled with sketches. His brother sat in a chair next to him, hands clasped in his lap. He was probably sore from his training, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he had gotten a small box out of his pocket and was repeatedly opening it, turning it in his hand, rubbing one side, then shutting it with a click. He did it over and over and over.

He stared at nothing as he did it. He seemed to do that a lot.

Elhokar continued pacing. Idrin—head of the King’s Guard—stood near the king, straight-backed, green eyes forward. He was dark-skinned for an Alethi, perhaps with some Azish blood in him, and wore a full beard.

Men from Bridge Four had been taking shifts with his men, as Dalinar suggested, and so far Kaladin had been impressed by the man and the team he had run. However, when the horns for a plateau run sounded, Idrin would turn toward them and his expression would grow longing. He wanted to be out there fighting. Sadeas’s betrayal had made a lot of the soldiers in camp similarly eager—as if they wanted the chance to prove how strong Dalinar’s army was.

More rumbling came from the storm outside. It was odd not to be cold during a highstorm—the barrack always felt chilly. This room was well heated, though not by a fire. Instead, the hearth held a ruby the size of Kaladin’s fist, one that could have paid to feed everyone in his hometown for weeks.

Kaladin left the window and sauntered toward the fireplace under the pretext of inspecting the gemstone. He really wanted a glimpse of whatever it was Adolin was looking through. Many men refused to even look at books, considering it unmasculine. Adolin didn’t seem to be bothered by that. Curious.

As he approached the hearth, Kaladin passed the door to a side room where Dalinar and Navani had retired at the advent of the storm. Kaladin had wanted to post a guard inside. They’d refused.

Well, this is the only way into that room, he thought. There’s not even a window. This time, if words appeared on the wall, he would know for certain nobody was sneaking in.

Kaladin stooped down, inspecting the ruby in the hearth, which was held in place by a wire enclosure. Its strong heat made his face prickle with sweat; storms, that ruby was so large that the Light infusing it should have blinded him. Instead, he could stare into its depths and see the Light moving inside.

People thought that the illumination from gemstones was steady and calm, but that was just in contrast to flickering candlelight. If you looked deeply into a stone, you could see the Light shifting with the chaotic pattern of a blowing storm. It was not calm inside. Not by a wind or a whisper.

“Never seen a heating fabrial before, I assume?” Renarin asked.

Kaladin glanced at the bespectacled prince. He wore an Alethi highlord’s uniform, like that of Adolin. In fact, Kaladin had never seen them wearing anything else—other than Shardplate, of course.