“We probably have a room for you,” Sebarial said. “Maybe in the cellars. Never do seem to have enough space for all of the stuff I’m expected to have. Three full sets of dining furniture. Bah! As if I’m ever going to have anyone over.”

“You really don’t think highly of the others, do you?” Shallan asked.

“I hate them,” Sebarial said. “But I try to hate everyone. That way, I don’t risk leaving out anyone who is particularly deserving. Anyway, here we are. Don’t expect me to help you out of the carriage.”

She didn’t need his help, as a footman quickly arrived and assisted her as she stepped out onto the stone steps built in beside the driveway. Another footman went to Sebarial, who cursed at him, but accepted the aid.

A short woman in a fine dress stood on the manor’s steps, hands on her hips. She had curly dark hair. From northern Alethkar, then?

“Ah,” Sebarial said as he and Shallan walked up toward the woman. “The bane of my existence. Please try to hold your laughter until we separate. My frail, aging ego can no longer handle the mockery.”

Shallan gave him a confused look.

Then the woman spoke. “Please tell me you didn’t kidnap her, Turi.”

No, not Alethi at all, Shallan thought, trying to judge the woman’s accent. Herdazian. The fingernails, with a rocklike cast to them, proved that. She was darkeyed, but her fine dress indicated she was not a servant.

Of course. The mistress.

“She insisted on coming with me, Palona,” Sebarial said, climbing the steps. “I couldn’t dissuade her. We’ll have to give her a room or something.”

“And who is she?”

“Some foreigner,” Sebarial said. “When she said she wanted to come with me, it seemed to annoy old Dalinar, so I allowed it.” He hesitated. “What was your name?” he asked, turning to Shallan.

“Shallan Davar,” Shallan said, bowing to Palona. She might be darkeyed, but she was apparently head of this household.

The Herdazian woman cocked an eyebrow. “Well, she is polite, which means she probably won’t fit in here. I honestly can’t believe you brought home a random girl because you thought it would annoy one of the other highprinces.”

“Bah!” Sebarial said. “Woman, you make me the most henpecked man in all of Alethkar—”

“We aren’t in Alethkar.”

“—and I’m not even storming married!”

“I’m not marrying you, so stop asking,” Palona said, folding her arms, looking Shallan up and down speculatively. “She’s far too young for you.”

Sebarial grinned. “I used that line already. On Ruthar. It was delightful—he sputtered so much, you could have mistaken him for a storm.”

Palona smiled, then waved him inside. “There’s mulled wine in your study.”

He sauntered toward the door. “Food?”

“You ran the cook off. Remember?”

“Oh, right. Well, you could have made the food.”

“As could you.”

“Bah. You’re useless, woman! All you do is spend my money. Why do I put up with you, again?”

“Because you love me.”

“Can’t be that,” Sebarial said, pausing beside the front doors. “I’m not capable of love. Too much a curmudgeon. Well, do something with the girl.” He walked inside.

Palona beckoned Shallan up to join her. “What really happened, child?”

“He didn’t say anything untrue,” Shallan said, realizing that she was blushing. “But he did leave out a few facts. I have come for the purpose of an arranged marriage to Adolin Kholin. I thought staying in the Kholin household might leave me too restricted, so I sought other options.”

“Huh. That actually makes it sound like Turi—”

“Don’t call me that!” a voice called from inside.

“—that the idiot did something politically savvy.”

“Well,” Shallan said, “I did kind of bully him into taking me in. And I implied publicly that he was going to give me a very generous stipend.”

“Too large a one!” the voice said from inside.

“Is he . . . standing in there listening?” Shallan asked.

“He’s good at skulking,” Palona said. “Well, come along. Let’s get you settled. Make sure you tell me how much he’s promised—even by implication—for your stipend. I’ll make sure it happens.”

Several footmen unloaded Shallan’s trunks from the coach. Her soldiers hadn’t arrived yet. Hopefully, they hadn’t run into trouble. She followed Palona into the building, which proved to have as classic a decor as the exterior implied. Lots of marble and crystal. Statues trimmed in gold. A sweeping, broad staircase leading to a second-floor balcony overlooking the entrance hall. Shallan didn’t notice the highprince around, skulking or otherwise.

Palona led Shallan to a very nice set of rooms in the eastern wing. They were all white, and richly furnished, the hard stone walls and floors softened with silk hangings and thick rugs. She hardly deserved such rich decor.

I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way, Shallan thought as Palona checked the closet for towels and linen. I’m betrothed to a prince.

Still, so much finery reminded her of her father. The lace, jewelry, and silk he’d given her in attempts to make her forget about . . . other times . . .

Shallan blinked, turning to Palona, who was speaking about something.

“Excuse me?” Shallan asked.

“Servants,” Palona said. “You have your own lady’s maid?”

“I don’t,” Shallan said. “I’ve got eighteen soldiers, though, and five slaves.”

“And they’ll be helping you change clothes?”

Shallan blushed. “I mean that I’d like them to be housed, if you can manage it.”

“I can,” Palona said lightly. “I can probably even find something productive for them to do. You’ll want them paid out of your stipend, I assume—your maid as well, which I’ll get for you. Food is served at second bell, noon, and tenth bell. If you want something at other times, ask at the kitchens. Cook might swear at you, assuming I can get him to come back this time. We’ve a storm cistern, so there’s usually running water. If you want it warm for a bath, the boys will need an hour or so to heat it.”

“Running water?” Shallan said, eager. She’d seen this for the first time in Kharbranth.

“As I said, storm cistern.” Palona pointed upward. “Each highstorm fills it, and the shape of the cistern sifts out the crem. Don’t use the system until midday after a highstorm, or the water will be brown. And you look entirely too eager about this.”

“Sorry,” Shallan said. “We didn’t have this sort of thing in Jah Keved.”

“Welcome to civilization. I trust you left your club and loincloth at the door. Let me set to finding you a maid.” The short woman started to leave.

“Palona?” Shallan asked.

“Yes, child?”

“Thank you.”

Palona smiled. “Winds know, you’re not the first stray he’s brought home. Some of us even end up staying.” She left.

Shallan sat down on the plush, white bed, and sank almost down to her neck. What had they made the thing out of? Air and wishes? It felt luxurious.

In her sitting room—her sitting room—thumps announced the footmen arriving with her trunks. They left a moment later, closing the door. For the first time in quite a long while, Shallan found herself not fighting for her survival or worrying about being murdered by one of her traveling companions.

So she fell asleep.

This act of great villainy went beyond the impudence which had hitherto been ascribed to the orders; as the fighting was particularly intense at this time, many attributed this act to a sense of inherent betrayal; and after they withdrew, about two thousand made assault upon them, destroying much of the membership; but this was only nine of the ten, as one said they would not abandon their arms and flee, but instead entertained great subterfuge at the expense of the other nine.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 38, page 20

Kaladin rested his fingers on the chasm wall as Bridge Seventeen formed up behind him.

He remembered being frightened of these chasms when he first descended into them. He had feared that heavy rains would cause a flash flood while his men were scavenging. He was a little surprised Gaz hadn’t found a way to “accidentally” get Bridge Four assigned to chasm duty on the day of a highstorm.

Bridge Four had embraced its punishment, claiming these pits. Kaladin was startled to realize that coming down here felt more like coming home than returning to Hearthstone and his parents would have. The chasms were his.

“The lads are ready, sir,” Teft said, stepping up beside him.

“Where were you the other night?” Kaladin asked, looking up toward the crack of open sky above.

“I was off duty, sir,” Teft said. “Went to see what I could find in the market. Do I need to report every little thing I do?”

“You went to the market,” Kaladin said, “in a highstorm?”

“Time may have gotten away from me for a breath or two . . .” Teft said, looking away.

Kaladin wanted to press further, but Teft was entitled to his privacy. They’re not bridgemen anymore. They don’t have to spend all of their time together. They’ll start having lives again.

He wanted to encourage that. Still, it was disturbing. If he didn’t know where they all were, how could he make sure they were all safe?

He turned around to regard Bridge Seventeen—a motley crew. Some had been slaves, purchased for the bridges. Others had been criminals, though the crimes punishable by bridge duty in Sadeas’s army could be practically anything. Falling into debt, insulting an officer, fighting.

“You,” Kaladin said to the men, “are Bridge Seventeen, under the command of Sergeant Pitt. You are not soldiers. You may wear the uniforms, but they don’t fit you yet. You’re playing dress-up. We’re going to change that.”

The men shuffled and looked about. Though Teft had been working with them and the other crews for weeks now, these didn’t yet see themselves as soldiers. As long as that was true, they’d hold those spears at awkward angles, look around lazily when being addressed, and shuffle in line.

“The chasms are mine,” Kaladin said. “I give you leave to practice here. Sergeant Pitt!”

“Yes, sir!” Pitt said, standing at attention.

“This is a sloppy mess of stormleavings you’ve got to work with, but I’ve seen worse.”

“I find that hard to believe, sir!”

“Believe it,” Kaladin said, looking over the men. “I was in Bridge Four. Lieutenant Teft, they’re yours. Make them sweat.”