Kaladin asked. “The Stormlight drained from me. I felt it go.”
“Who were you protecting?” Syl asked.
“I . . . I was practicing how to fight, like when I practiced with Skar and Rock down in the chasms.”
“Is that really what you were doing?” Syl asked.
He didn’t know. He lay there, staring at the sky, until he finally caught his breath and forced himself to his feet with a groan. He dusted himself off, then went to check on Moash and the other guards. As he went, he drew in a little Stormlight, and it worked, slowly healing his shoulder and soothing away his bruises.
The physical ones, at least.
FIVE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
The silk of Shallan’s new dress was softer than any she had owned before. It touched her skin like a comforting breeze. The left cuff clipped closed over the hand; she was old enough now to cover her safehand. She had once dreamed of wearing a woman’s dress. Her mother and she . . .
Her mother . . .
Shallan’s mind went still. Like a candle suddenly snuffed, she stopped thinking. She leaned back in her chair, legs tucked up underneath her, hands in her lap. The dreary stone dining chamber bustled with activity as Davar Manor prepared for guests. Shallan did not know which guests, only that her father wanted the place immaculate.
Not that she could do anything to help.
Two maids bustled past. “She saw,” one whispered softly to the other, a new woman. “Poor thing was in the room when it happened. Hasn’t spoken a word in five months. The master killed his own wife and her lover, but don’t let it . . .”
They continued talking, but Shallan didn’t hear.
She kept her hands in her lap. Her dress’s vibrant blue was the only real color in the room. She sat on the dais, beside the high table. A half-dozen maids in brown, wearing gloves on their safehands, scrubbed the floor and polished the furniture. Parshmen carted in a few more tables. A maid threw open the windows, letting in damp fresh air from the recent highstorm.
Shallan caught mention of her name again. The maids apparently thought that because she didn’t speak, she didn’t hear either. At times, she wondered if she was invisible. Perhaps she wasn’t real. That would be nice. . . .
The door to the hall slammed open, and Nan Helaran entered. Tall, muscular, square-chinned. Her oldest brother was a man. The rest of them . . . they were children. Even Tet Balat, who had reached the age of adulthood. Helaran scanned the chamber, perhaps looking for their father. Then he approached Shallan, a small bundle under his arm. The maids made way with alacrity.
“Hello, Shallan,” Helaran said, squatting down beside her chair. “Here to supervise?”
It was a place to be. Father did not like her being where she could not be watched. He worried.
“I brought you something,” Helaran said, unwrapping his bundle. “I ordered it for you in Northgrip, and the merchant only just passed by.” He took out a leather satchel.
Shallan took it hesitantly. Helaran’s grin was so wide, it practically glowed. It was hard to frown in a room where he was smiling. When he was around, she could almost pretend . . . Almost pretend . . .
Her mind went blank.
“Shallan?” he asked, nudging her.
She undid the satchel. Inside was a sheaf of drawing paper, the thick kind—the expensive kind—and a set of charcoal pencils. She raised her covered safehand to her lips.
“I’ve missed your drawings,” Helaran said. “I think you could be very good, Shallan. You should practice more.”
She ran the fingers of her right hand across the paper, then picked up a pencil. She started to sketch. It had been too long.
“I need you to come back, Shallan,” Helaran said softly.
She hunched over, pencil scratching on paper.
“Shallan?”
No words. Just drawing.
“I’m going to be away a lot in the next few years,” Helaran said. “I need you to watch the others for me. I’m worried about Balat. I gave him a new axehound pup, and he . . . wasn’t kind to it. You need to be strong, Shallan. For them.”
The maids had grown quiet since Helaran’s arrival. Lethargic vines curled down outside the window nearby. Shallan’s pencil continued to move. As if she weren’t doing the drawing; as if it were coming up out of the page, the charcoal seeping out of the texture. Like blood.
Helaran sighed, standing. Then he saw what she was drawing. Bodies, facedown,