Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,169

or teaching had plainly been going on earlier, judging by the rows of cushions.

“If you didn’t let Noril go,” Kaladin said, “what happened to him?”

“We sent him on,” the ardent explained. She was holding so many cushions, he couldn’t see her through them. “My devotary cares for physical ailments. We help rehabilitate those who have lost limbs, eyes, or their hearing in battle. He had only one arm, yes, but his wounds ran deeper.”

There were three cushions left on the floor, and when she tried to bend to pick them up, her stack teetered. So Kaladin held out his hand for her stack. Then he held out his other hand as well.

“You can’t carry them all,” she said. “Let’s…”

She trailed off as she saw what Kaladin had done. The stack he’d originally been holding—now Lashed upward just enough—remained floating in the air beside him.

“Oh,” she said, then inspected him more closely. “Oh! You’re Brightlord Stormblessed!”

Kaladin nudged the floating stack of cushions so they lazily floated over toward the far wall—where other unused cushions were piled—then took her stack.

The ardent quickly grabbed the last three, blushing as she walked him over to the wall. “I had no idea who you were! I’m sorry, Radiant.”

“It’s fine,” Kaladin said. “Don’t make anything of it, please.” As if being lighteyed wasn’t bad enough.

“Well, the man you want,” she said, “we couldn’t help him. We … did try to keep him rather than sending him on. We knew he was in bad shape, after all. But…”

“Bad shape?” Kaladin asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Last week we caught him trying to hang himself. The surgeon who sent him here warned us to watch for it, fortunately, so we saved him. Then we sent him on to the Devotary of Mercy. They care for those who … have trouble with their minds.”

“You knew he might be a danger to himself,” Teft said, walking up, “and you didn’t send him there immediately?”

“We … no,” she said. “We didn’t.”

“Irresponsible,” Teft said.

“My father knew and sent him here first,” Kaladin reminded Teft. “I’m sure the ardents did what they could.”

“Go to level four, Brightlord,” she said. “Right near the center, along Northbeam and not quite to the Aladar Princedom.”

He set down the last of the cushions and nodded to Teft, and the two of them began the hike. Everything in Urithiru was a hike, especially on the lower floors.

Shallan always knew her way around just by the strata on the walls, which waved in colorful lines as different layers of rock had been cut through to make the tunnel. Kaladin considered himself good with directions, but he had to use the painted lines on the floor to get anywhere.

“Still can’t believe how much of this place hasn’t been explored,” Teft said as they walked.

“I suspect by now most of it has been explored,” Kaladin said. “Brightness Navani’s teams have mapped all the lower levels, and done walk-throughs of all the upper ones.”

“Walk-throughs, yes,” Teft said, eyeing a dark corridor. “But explored? You might walk the woods every day and never see one out of a hundred things in there watching you.”

As they struck inward, they saw fewer people. The lit areas—lined with Stormlight lanterns locked tight and bolted to the walls—dwindled behind, and they needed handheld spheres for light. There was a certain eeriness to these inner sections of the tower. Most everyone lived and worked on the rim. The only times they would strike inward would be to visit the atrium or one of the first-floor markets. He’d noted people taking long walks all the way around the rim to one of the lit corridors rather than cutting through the darker center. Storms, he’d found himself doing the same thing.

There was still space on the rim of the fifth and sixth floors, so why had this monastery chosen such an inward section? He was glad when they eventually reached a section of hallway that had permanent lanterns again. Paint on the floor indicated they were approaching Aladar’s princedom. A right turn at a large intersection with glyphs on the floor led them to the monastery—marked by a large wooden door blocking the way forward, painted with a glyphpair in the shape of the Vorin sword, indicating a religious building.

“Building” was, of course, a stretch. Generally for a small complex like this, people would find an area with a grouping of different-sized rooms and hallways and divide them off with a few doors at key entry points. Someone was monitoring the