Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,198

unlikely to answer, but that wasn’t why she hesitated.

I don’t want to know, she thought. Instead she said, “I will contact you once we have traveled a distance on the caravan.”

“Very well,” Mraize said. “Again, I must emphasize: Watch for any signs of these corrupted gloryspren. I worry that Sja-anat is playing us both, and I do not like the feeling.”

Shallan almost dropped the cube in surprise. She intentionally hadn’t mentioned the specific variety of spren. Yet he called them gloryspren.

HA! Veil thought.

Oh, storms, Radiant thought. Veil’s plan worked. She’s going to be insufferable now.

Insufferable? I’m incredible. Mraize has fallen into a common trap—that of being so clever, you start forgetting your fundamentals. Always question your information.

“Understood,” Shallan forced herself to say. “I will keep diligent watch.” The glow in the cube faded. She carefully set it back in the chest, then took another Memory of it there before locking the lid.

Word had gotten to Mraize, and the false tidbit—that she’d seen a gloryspren watching her—had revealed the truth.

Beryl was the spy.

* * *

The humans that Godeke had found were an unexpected lot. They didn’t appear to be soldiers, but common workers with brown skin and black hair, both male and female. You found some Vorin people with that skin tone, but more likely you’d find it in midlands. Marat, Tukar, the Reshi Isles.

They wore simple clothing of a cut Adolin thought he recognized as being from southeastern Makabak. It had colors similar to Azish patterns, but the cloth was thicker and coarser, the outfits more enveloping, with braided tassels that hung low from the waist.

Yes, he thought. They look like they’re from Marat, or maybe Tukar.

Multiple caravans had made camps outside town, and all the others had spren occupants. As Adolin and Godeke had passed, those had waved or gestured in friendly ways. One had even called out to Archinal—Godeke’s spren—recognizing her.

This human camp, by contrast, was an unwelcoming place. While the spren camps had manifested fires, this one was dark, lit by neither flame nor Stormlight. The human caravan had brought no pack animals, but the people had piled their things in the center of camp while some of their number slept. The rest of them, mostly men with cudgels resting on shoulders, watched the perimeter.

“Who are they?” Adolin asked softly, watching from beside the wall of a small shop. The landscape outside the town was relatively barren, an open field of obsidian with some small crystalline plants growing in clusters, bobbing with lifespren—which were larger on this side.

“Traders from another land perhaps?” Archinal said. The short cultivationspren wrung her hands. “Oh, it does happen, and more and more these days. People come in caravans seeking to trade. They like your wines, human brightlord. And many have heard tales of your weapons, and I’ve known several to ask to trade for one! As if a Shardblade would be available for purchase.”

“Other lands,” Adolin said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe some other traders you met are from far away, but these are wearing Marati or Tukari clothing. They seem like locals to me—but if that’s the case, I’m left wondering how they got here. We only recently learned how to cross into Shadesmar, and it requires the aid of a Radiant. How did a trading caravan from our world slip through into here?”

“That’s why I fetched you,” Godeke said. “Something feels off about the whole group.”

“They could still be foreigners,” Archinal said. “They could be wearing manifested clothing they traded for while here. Oh! You mustn’t assume that what you see here relates to what you know from your life, human highprince.”

“We could ask them, right?” Godeke said. “See if they’ll talk to us?”

The two exchanged a look, and then Adolin shrugged. Why not? He walked out, joined by Godeke and his spren, Maya trailing along behind.

He was noticed immediately by the caravaneers. One pointed, and a small group rushed up. The lighting of this place—with that distant sun, but strangely omnipresent illumination—played tricks on Adolin’s eyes. The shadows stretched the wrong way, and distance was harder to judge. So Adolin was accustomed to things feeling off.

Even with that considered, the way these people seemed to be constantly wreathed in shadow … it was unnerving. As they stepped up, he felt like he could see only hints of features, and no matter which way they turned, the pits of their faces—the eye sockets, the lines along their noses—were always dark. He saw occasional glimpses of their eyes.

They spoke to him