Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,225

those. That beauty.

She was particularly thrilled when she spotted what had to be Lasting Integrity: a large fortress on a bleak outcrop of obsidian jutting out into the bead ocean. Imperious—with high walls crafted of some uniformly blue stone—the large boxy fortress was positioned perfectly to defend a natural bay to the north. You even had to cross a bridge to reach the place. Honorspren, it was clear, did not take fortification lightly.

Shallan wanted to draw it. She could lose herself in the picture and not have to confront other facts. But then Pattern walked up beside her, and she instead whimpered and retreated again.

Veil at last took control. For Shallan’s own good.

“We are almost arrived!” Pattern said, his pattern rotating in an intensely excited manner.

Veil needed proof, so she chose her words deliberately. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your early days with Shallan. It seems possible that the Ghostbloods were watching her when she was a child. If we can discover facts to confirm this, it might help us figure out how to beat them.”

“Mm. That makes sense, I suppose!” he said. “I don’t remember much though.”

“You were together once, in the garden, with Shallan,” Veil said—fabricating a complete lie. “I can see her memories. Shallan saw Balat speaking to someone who looked, in hindsight, like she might have been wearing a mask. Do you suppose he might be the spy?”

“Oh!” Pattern said. “Your brother? Working with the Ghostbloods? Hmmm … That would be painful for you! But maybe it makes sense. Mraize always does seem to know too much about your brothers and where they are.”

“Do you remember that day in Shallan’s past?” Veil pushed. “Anything about it?”

“In the garden, with Balat meeting someone wearing a mask…” Pattern said.

“An important moment,” Veil said. “You were there. I can remember you being with Shallan.”

“Um … Yes!” he said. “I remember now. Ha ha. Yes, that happened. Balat and a mysterious figure. You have made my memory start to return, Veil! We were together then. And maybe Balat is a spy. My my. That is very naughty of him.”

From deep inside, Shallan whimpered again. But Veil, Veil had been created to soldier through moments like this. She ignored the profound sickening feeling. Pattern was lying to her.

Pattern was lying.

Veil couldn’t take anything for granted any longer. She couldn’t assume anyone was trustworthy. She had to be careful, redouble her defenses, and keep Shallan safe.

“Veil?” Pattern asked. “Are you well? Did I say something wrong?”

“I’m merely thinking,” Veil said. “Have you seen any strange spren watching us?”

“The corrupted gloryspren?” he asked. “Like you said to watch out for? No, I have not. Mmm…”

She saw something ahead, a small group of riders glowing a faint blue-white. The honorspren had seen them approaching, and had sent a contingent to engage them.

Adolin halted the column, dismounting and telling his soldiers to water the horses and settle everyone. Then he stepped forward, still wearing the bloodied uniform, his side bandaged.

Veil moved to follow. “Keep your eyes—or whatever it is you have—open,” she said to Pattern as he ambled along beside her. “These are dangerous times, Pattern. We have to always be on the watch. Careful, lest we be taken advantage of…”

“Yes, truly.”

Shallan grew very small, very quiet. It’s all right, Veil thought. I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I promise.

* * *

Adolin stopped in front of his caravan, Shallan at his side. The pain medication he’d taken was working, and he felt only a small ache from his gut wound. And the march here—during which he’d admitted he needed to ride, letting him rest—had helped with his light-headedness.

He still required sleep and time to recover. This wound wouldn’t be debilitating, unless it started to rot. But he also wouldn’t be in fighting shape for weeks at least.

For now, he kept a strong front. He had Notum stay back, though he was certain the three approaching honorspren had seen him. They rode on those same graceful not-horses that Notum had been riding earlier. His had run off in a panic when he’d been attacked, and they hadn’t been able to locate it.

These newcomers wore sharp field uniforms after an unfamiliar style—long sweeping coats that trailed almost to the knees, with high collars. They wore crowns on their heads, and carried long swords at their sides, slim and beautiful. The swords were the only things they wore that weren’t made of their own substance—coats, crowns, shirts, all were simply created