The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,272

had assumptions and hopes. No, not hopes—fears. He had rejected the Envisagers. And yet, here he was. He fished in his pocket and pulled out three small diamond spheres. It had been a long, long while since he’d saved anything of his wages, but he’d held on to these, thinking, worrying. They glowed with Stormlight in his hand.

Did he really want to know?

Gritting his teeth, Teft moved closer to Kaladin’s side, looking down at the unconscious man’s face. “You bastard,” he whispered. “You storming bastard. You took a bunch of hanged men and lifted them up just enough to breathe. Now you’re going to leave them? I won’t have it, you hear. I won’t.”

He pressed the spheres into Kaladin’s hand, wrapping the limp fingers around them, then laying the hand on Kaladin’s abdomen. Then Teft sat back on his heels. What would happen? All the Envisagers had were stories and legends. Fool’s tales, Teft had called them. Idle dreams.

He waited. Of course, nothing happened. You’re as big a fool as any, Teft, he told himself. He reached for Kaladin’s hand. Those spheres would buy a few drinks.

Kaladin gasped suddenly, drawing in a short, quick, powerful breath.

The glow in his hand faded.

Teft froze, eyes widening. Wisps of Light began to rise from Kaladin’s body. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that glowing white Stormlight streaming off his frame. It was as if Kaladin had been bathed in sudden heat, and his very skin steamed.

Kaladin’s eyes snapped open, and they leaked light too, faintly colored amber. He gasped again loudly, and the trailing wisps of light began to twist around the exposed cuts on his chest. A few of them pulled together and knit themselves up.

Then it was gone, the Light of those tiny chips expended. Kaladin’s eyes closed and he relaxed. His wounds were still bad, his fever still raging, but some color had returned to his skin. The puffy redness around several cuts had diminished.

“My God,” Teft said, realizing he was trembling. “Almighty, cast from heaven to dwell in our hearts…It is true.” He bowed his head to the rock floor, squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking from their corners.

Why now? he thought again. Why here?

And, in the name of all heaven, why me?

He knelt for a hundred heartbeats, counting, thinking, worrying. Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet and retrieved the spheres—now dun—from Kaladin’s hand. He’d need to trade them for spheres with Light in them. Then he could return and let Kaladin drain those as well.

He’d have to be careful. A few spheres each day, but not too many. If the boy healed too quickly, it would draw too much attention.

And I need to tell the Envisagers, he thought. I need to…

The Envisagers were gone. Dead, because of what he had done. If there were others, he had no idea how to locate them.

Who would he tell? Who would believe him? Kaladin himself probably didn’t understand what he was doing.

Best to keep it quiet, at least until he could figure out what to do about it.

“Within a heartbeat, Alezarv was there, crossing a distance that would have taken more than four months to travel by foot.”

—Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales.

Shallan’s hand flew across the drawing board, moving as if of its own accord, charcoal scratching, sketching, smudging. Thick lines first, like trails of blood left by a thumb drawn across rough granite. Tiny lines like scratches made by a pin.

She sat in her closetlike stone chamber in the Conclave. No windows, no ornamentation on the granite walls. Just the bed, her trunk, the nightstand, and the small desk that doubled as a drawing table.

A single ruby broam cast a bloody light on her sketch. Usually, to produce a vibrant drawing, she had to consciously memorize a scene. A blink, freezing the world, imprinting it into her mind. She hadn’t done that during Jasnah’s annihilation of the thieves. She’d been too frozen by horror or morbid fascination.

Despite that, she could see each of those scenes in her mind just as vividly as if she’d deliberately memorized them. And these memories didn’t vanish when she drew them. She couldn’t rid her mind of them. Those deaths were burned into her.

She sat back from her drawing board, hand shaking, the picture before her an exact charcoal representation of the suffocating nightscape, squeezed between alley walls, a tortured figure of flame rising