he had finished bonding his Blade a couple weeks back, and no longer needed to carry it around. “A woman Shardbearer?”
“The Parshendi are pretty odd,” Adolin said with a shrug. He glanced toward Kaladin, and his lips rose in a smirk. “Sleeping on the job, bridgeboy?”
The leaking shutter shook nearby, water dribbling in under the wood. Navani and Dalinar would be in the room next door.
The king wasn’t there.
“His Majesty!” Kaladin cried, scrambling to his feet.
“In the privy, bridgeboy,” Adolin said, nodding to another door. “You can sleep during a highstorm. That’s impressive. Almost as impressive as how much you drool when you’re dozing.”
No time for gibes. That dream . . . Kaladin turned toward the balcony door, breathing quickly.
He comes. . . .
Kaladin pulled open the balcony door. Adolin shouted and Renarin called out, but Kaladin ignored them, facing the tempest.
The wind still howled and rain pelted the stone balcony with a sound like sticks breaking. There was no lightning, however, and the wind—while violent—was not nearly strong enough to fling boulders or topple walls. The bulk of the highstorm had passed.
Darkness. Wind from the depths of nothingness, battering him. He felt as if he were standing above the void itself, Damnation, known as Braize in the old songs. Home to demons and monsters. He stepped out hesitantly, light from the still-open door spilling onto the wet balcony. He found the railing—a part that was still secure—and clenched it in cold fingers. Rain bit him on the cheek, seeping through his uniform, burrowing through the cloth and seeking warm skin.
“Are you mad?” Adolin demanded from the doorway. Kaladin could barely hear his voice over the wind and distant rumbles of thunder.
* * *
Pattern hummed softly as rain fell on the wagon.
Shallan’s slaves huddled together and whimpered. She wished she could quiet the blasted spren, but Pattern wasn’t responding to her promptings. At least the highstorm was nearly over. She wanted to get away and read what Tyn’s correspondents had to say about Shallan’s homeland.
Pattern’s hums sounded almost like a whimper. Shallan frowned and leaned down close to him. Were those words?
“Bad . . . bad . . . so bad . . .”
* * *
Syl shot out of the highstorm’s dense darkness, a sudden flash of light in the black. She spun about Kaladin before coming to rest on the iron railing before him. Her dress seemed longer and more flowing than usual. The rain passed through her without disturbing her shape.
Syl looked into the sky, then turned her head sharply over her shoulder. “Kaladin. Something is wrong.”
“I know.”
Syl spun about, twisting this way, then that. Her small eyes opened wide. “He’s coming.”
“Who? The storm?”
“The one who hates,” she whispered. “The darkness inside. Kaladin, he’s watching. Something’s going to happen. Something bad.”
Kaladin hesitated only a moment, then scrambled back into the room, pushing past Adolin and entering the light. “Get the king. We’re leaving. Now.”
“What?” Adolin demanded.
Kaladin threw open the door into the small room where Dalinar and Navani waited. The highprince sat on a sofa, expression distant, Navani holding his hand. That wasn’t what Kaladin had expected. The highprince didn’t seem frightened or mad, just thoughtful. He was speaking softly.
Kaladin froze. He sees things during the storms.
“What are you doing?” Navani demanded. “How dare you?”
“Can you wake him?” Kaladin asked, stepping into the room. “We need to leave this room, leave this palace.”
“Nonsense.” It was the king’s voice. Elhokar stepped into the room behind him. “What are you babbling about?”
“You’re not safe here, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “We need to get you out of the palace and take you to the warcamp.” Storms. Would that be safe? Should he go somewhere nobody would expect?
Thunder rumbled outside, but the sound of rainfall slackened. The storm was dying.
“This is ridiculous,” Adolin said from behind the king, throwing his hands into the air. “This is the safest place in the warcamps. You want us to leave? Drag the king out into the storm?”
“We need to wake the highprince,” Kaladin said, reaching for Dalinar.
Dalinar caught his arm as he did so. “The highprince is awake,” Dalinar said, his gaze clearing, returning from the distant place where it had been. “What is going on here?”
“The bridgeboy wants us to evacuate the palace,” Adolin said.
“Soldier?” Dalinar asked.
“It’s not safe here, sir.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Instinct, sir.”
The room grew still. Outside, the rainfall slackened to a gentle patter. The riddens had arrived.
“We go, then,” Dalinar said, rising.
“What?” the king demanded.
“You put this man in charge