“Mmmmm . . .” Pattern said from the seat beside her.

“This picture is a lie,” Shallan said.

“Yes.”

“And yet it isn’t. This is what he became, at the end. To a small degree.”

“Yes.”

“So what is the lie, and what is the truth?”

Pattern hummed softly to himself, like a contented axehound before the hearth. Shallan fingered the picture, smoothing it. Then she pulled out a sketchpad and a pencil, and started drawing. It was a difficult task in the lurching palanquin; this would not be her finest drawing. Still, her fingers moved across the sketch with an intensity she hadn’t felt in weeks.

Broad lines at first, to fix the image in her head. She wasn’t copying a Memory this time. She was searching for something nebulous: a lie that could be real if she could just imagine it correctly.

She scratched frantically at the paper, hunkering down, and soon stopped feeling the rhythm of the porters’ steps. She saw only the drawing, knew only the emotions she bled onto that page. Jasnah’s determination. Tyn’s confidence. A sense of rightness that she could not describe, but which she drew from her brother Helaran, the best person she’d ever known.

It all poured from her into the pencil and onto the page. Streaks and lines that became shadows and patterns that became figures and faces. A quick sketch, hurried, yet one alive. It depicted Shallan as a confident young woman standing before Dalinar Kholin, as she imagined him. She’d put him in Shardplate as he, and those around him, studied Shallan with penetrating consternation. She stood strong, hand raised toward them as she spoke with confidence and power. No trembling here. No fear of confrontation.

This is what I would have been, Shallan thought, if I had not been raised in a household of fear. So this is what I will be today.

It wasn’t a lie. It was a different truth.

A knock came at the palanquin’s door. It had stopped moving; she’d barely noticed. With a nod to herself, she folded the sketch and slipped it into the pocket of her safehand sleeve. Then she stepped out of the vehicle and onto cold rock. She felt invigorated, and realized she had sucked in a tiny amount of Stormlight without meaning to.

The palace was both finer and more mundane than she might have expected. Certainly, this was a warcamp, and so the king’s seat wouldn’t match the majesty of the royal dwellings of Kharbranth. At the same time, it was amazing that such a structure could have been crafted here, away from the culture and resources of Alethkar proper. The towering stone fortress of sculpted rock, several stories high, perched at the pinnacle of the hill.

“Vathah, Gaz,” she said. “Attend me. The rest of you, take up position here. I will send word.”

They saluted her; she wasn’t certain if that was appropriate or not. She strode forward, and noticed with amusement that she’d chosen one of the tallest of the deserters and one of the shortest to accompany her, and so when they flanked her, it created an even slope of height: Vathah, herself, Gaz. Had she really just chosen her guards based on aesthetic appeal?

The front gates of the palace complex faced west, and here Shallan found a large group of guards standing before open doors that led to a deep tunnel of a corridor into the hill itself. Sixteen guards at the door? She had read that King Elhokar was paranoid, but this seemed excessive.

“You’ll need to announce me, Vathah,” she said softly as they walked up.

“As?”

“Brightness Shallan Davar, ward of Jasnah Kholin and causal betrothed of Adolin Kholin. Wait to say it until I indicate.”

The grizzled man nodded, hand on his axe. Shallan didn’t share his discomfort. If anything, she was excited. She strode by the guards with head held high, acting as if she belonged.

They let her pass.

Shallan almost stumbled. Over a dozen guards at the door, and they didn’t challenge her. Several raised hands as if to do so—she saw this from the corner of her eye—but they backed down into silence. Vathah snorted softly from beside her as they entered the tunnel-like corridor beyond the gates.

The acoustics caught echoing whispers as the guards at the door conversed. Finally, one of them did call out after her. “. . . Brightness?”

She stopped, turning toward them and raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Brightness,” the guard called. “But you are . . . ?”

She nodded to Vathah.

“You don’t recognize Brightness Davar?” he barked. “The causal betrothed of Brightlord Adolin Kholin?”

The guards hushed, and Shallan turned around to continue on her way. The conversation behind started up again almost immediately, loud enough this time that she could catch a few words. “. . . never can keep track of that man’s women . . .”

They reached an intersection. Shallan looked one way, then the other. “Upward, I’d guess,” she said.

“Kings do like to be at the top of everything,” Vathah said. “Attitude might get you past the outer door, Brightness, but it’s not going to get you in to see Kholin.”

“Are you really his betrothed?” Gaz asked nervously, scratching at his eye patch.

“Last I checked,” Shallan said, leading the way. “Which, granted, was before my ship sank.” She wasn’t worried about getting in to see Kholin. She’d at least get an audience.

They continued upward, asking servants for directions. Those scuttled about in clusters, jumping when spoken to. Shallan recognized that kind of timidity. Was the king as terrible a master as her father had been?

As they went higher, the structure seemed less like a fortress and more like a palace. There were reliefs on the walls, mosaics on the floor, carved shutters, an increasing number of windows. By the time they approached the king’s conference chamber near the top, wood trim framed the stone walls, with silver and gold leaf worked into the carvings. Lamps held massive sapphires, beyond the size of ordinary denominations, radiating bright blue light. At least she wouldn’t lack for Stormlight, should she need it.

The passage into the king’s conference room was clogged with men. Soldiers in a dozen different uniforms.

“Damnation,” Gaz said. “Those are Sadeas’s colors there.”

“And Thanadal, and Aladar, and Ruthar . . .” Vathah said. “He’s meeting with all the highprinces, as I said.”

Shallan could pick out factions easily, dredging from her studies of Jasnah’s book the names—and heraldry—of all ten highprinces. Sadeas’s soldiers chatted with those of Highprince Ruthar and Highprince Aladar. Dalinar’s stood alone, and Shallan could sense hostility between them and the others in the hallway.

Dalinar’s guards had very few lighteyes among them. That was odd. And did that one man at the door look familiar? The tall darkeyed man with the blue coat that went down to his knees. The man with the shoulder-length hair, curling slightly . . . He was speaking in a low voice with another soldier, who was one of the men from the gates below.

“Looks like they beat us up here,” Vathah said softly.

The man turned and looked her right in the eyes, then glanced down toward her feet.

Oh no.

The man—an officer, by the uniform—strode directly toward her. He ignored the hostile stares of the other highprinces’ soldiers as he walked right up to Shallan. “Prince Adolin,” he said flatly, “is engaged to a Horneater?”

She’d almost forgotten the encounter two days outside of the warcamps. I’m going to strangle that— She cut off, feeling a stab of depression. She had ended up killing Tyn.

“Obviously not,” Shallan said, raising her chin and not using the Horneater accent. “I was traveling alone through the wilderness. Revealing my true identity did not seem prudent.”

The man grunted. “Where are my boots?”

“Is this how you address a lighteyed lady of rank?”

“It’s how I address a thief,” the man said. “I’d just gotten those boots.”

“I’ll have a dozen new pairs sent to you,” Shallan said. “After I have spoken with Highprince Dalinar.”

“You think I’m going to let you see him?”

“You think you get to choose?”

“I’m captain of his guard, woman.”

Blast, she thought. That was going to be inconvenient. At least she wasn’t trembling from the confrontation. She really was past that. Finally.

“Well tell me, Captain,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Kaladin.” Odd. That sounded like a lighteyes’s name.

“Excellent. Now I have a name to use when I tell the highprince about you. He’s not going to like his son’s betrothed being treated this way.”

Kaladin waved to several of his soldiers. The men in blue surrounded her and Vathah and . . .

Where had Gaz gotten off to?

She turned and found him backing down the corridor. Kaladin spotted him, and started visibly.

“Gaz?” Kaladin demanded. “What is this?”

“Uh . . .” The one-eyed man stammered. “Lordsh . . . Um, Kaladin. You’re, ah, an officer? So things have been going well for you . . .”

“You know this man?” Shallan asked Kaladin.

“He tried to get me killed,” Kaladin said, voice even. “On multiple occasions. He’s one of the most hateful little rats I’ve ever known.”

Great.

“You’re not Adolin’s betrothed,” Kaladin said, meeting her gaze as several of his men gleefully seized Gaz, who had backed into other guards coming up from below. “Adolin’s betrothed has drowned. You are an opportunist with a very bad sense of timing. I doubt that Dalinar Kholin will be pleased to find a swindler trying to capitalize on the death of his niece.”

She finally started to feel nervous. Vathah glanced at her, obviously worried that this Kaladin’s guesses were correct. Shallan steadied herself and reached into her safepouch, pulling out a piece of paper she’d found in Jasnah’s notes. “Is Highlady Navani in that room?”

Kaladin didn’t reply.

“Show her this, please,” Shallan said.

Kaladin hesitated, then took the sheet. He looked it over, but obviously couldn’t tell that he was holding it upside down. It was one of the written communications between Jasnah and her mother, arranging for the causal. Communicated via spanreed, there would be two copies—the one that had been written on Jasnah’s side, and the one on Brightness Navani’s side.

“We’ll see,” Kaladin said.

“We’ll . . .” Shallan found herself sputtering. If she couldn’t get in to see Dalinar, then . . . Then . . . Storm this man! She took his arm in her freehand as he turned to give orders to his men. “Is this really all because I lied to you?” she demanded more softly.

He looked back at her. “It’s about doing my job.”