her how her own princedom was fairing.
“I don’t know for certain,” Tyn said. “Jal Mala and Evinor for sure, and probably Abrial. Some died in the attack, others before that, though the information is vague. Getting any kind of reliable information out of Vedenar these days is tough.”
“Valam. He still lives?” Her own highprince.
“He was fighting for the succession, reports say. I have my informants sending me word tonight via spanreed. Might have something for you then.”
Shallan settled back. The king, dead? A succession war? Stormfather! How could she find out about her family and their estate? They were nowhere near the capital, but if the entire country was consumed by war, it could reach even to the backwater areas. There was no easy way to reach her brothers. She’d lost her own spanreed in the sinking of the Wind’s Pleasure.
“Any information would be appreciated,” Shallan said. “Any at all.”
“We’ll see. I’ll let you come by for the report.”
Shallan settled back to digest this information. She suspected I didn’t know, but didn’t tell me until now. Shallan liked Tyn, but had to remember that the woman made a profession of hiding information. What else did Tyn know that she wasn’t sharing?
Ahead, the caravan youth walked back down the line of moving wagons. As he reached Shallan, he turned and walked beside her vehicle. “Macob says you are wise to ask, and says we should probably camp here. The warcamps each have secure borders, and aren’t likely to let us in during the night. Beyond that, he is uncertain if we could reach the camps before tonight’s storm.”
To the side, eyes still closed, Tyn grinned.
“We camp, then,” Shallan said.
The spren betrayed us, it’s often felt.
Our minds are too close to their realm
That gives us our forms, but more is then
Demanded by the smartest spren,
We can’t provide what the humans lend,
Though broth are we, their meat is men.
—From the Listener Song of Spren, 9th stanza
In his dream, Kaladin was the storm.
He claimed the land, surging across it, a cleansing fury. All washed before him, broke before him. In his darkness, the land was reborn.
He soared, alive with lightning, his flashes of inspiration. The wind’s howling was his voice, the thunder his heartbeat. He overwhelmed, overcame, overshadowed, and—
And he had done this before.
An awareness came to Kaladin, like water seeping under a door. Yes. He’d dreamed this dream before.
With effort, he turned around. A face as large as eternity stretched behind him, the force behind the tempest, the Stormfather himself.
SON OF HONOR, said a voice like roaring wind.
“This is real!” Kaladin yelled into the storm. He was wind itself. Spren. He found voice somehow. “You are real!”
SHE TRUSTS YOU.
“Syl?” Kaladin called. “Yes, she does.”
SHE SHOULD NOT.
“Are you the one who forbade her to come to me? Are you the one who keeps the spren back?”
YOU WILL KILL HER. The voice, so deep, so powerful, sounded regretful. Mournful. YOU WILL MURDER MY CHILD AND LEAVE HER CORPSE TO WICKED MEN.
“I will not!” Kaladin shouted.
YOU BEGIN IT ALREADY.
The storm continued. Kaladin saw the world from above. Ships in sheltered harbors rocking on violent swells. Armies huddled in valleys, preparing for war in a place of many hills and mountains. A vast lake going dry ahead of his arrival, the water retreating into holes in the rock beneath.
“How can I prevent it?” Kaladin demanded. “How can I protect her?”
YOU ARE HUMAN. YOU WILL BE A TRAITOR.
“No I won’t!”
YOU WILL CHANGE. MEN CHANGE. ALL MEN.
The continent was so vast. So many people speaking languages he could not comprehend, everyone hiding in their rooms, their caverns, their valleys.
AH, the Stormfather said. SO IT WILL END.
“What?” Kaladin shouted into the winds. “What changed? I feel—”
HE COMES FOR YOU, LITTLE TRAITOR. I AM SORRY.
Something rose before Kaladin. A second storm, one of red lightning, so enormous as to make the continent—the world itself—into nothing by comparison. Everything fell into its shadow.
I AM SORRY, the Stormfather said. HE COMES.
Kaladin awoke, heart thundering in his chest.
He almost fell from his chair. Where was he? The Pinnacle, the king’s conference chamber. Kaladin had sat down for a moment and . . .
He blushed. He’d dozed off.
Adolin stood nearby, talking to Renarin. “I’m not sure if anything will come from the meeting, but I’m glad Father agreed to it. I’d almost given up hope of it happening, with how long the Parshendi messenger took to arrive.”
“You’re sure the one you met out there was a woman?” Renarin asked. He seemed more at ease since