regular blade. And it doesn’t usually work; it usually fails, and you’re dead when it does. Better to focus your time practicing things that will actively help you.”
Kaladin nodded.
“Not going to push me on it?” Zahel asked.
“Your argument is good,” Kaladin said. “Solid soldier’s logic. Makes sense.”
“Huh. Might be hope for you after all.” Zahel took a swig from his canteen. “Now go get back to practicing.”
THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
Shallan poked at the cage, and the colorful creature inside shifted on its perch, cocking its head at her.
It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever seen. It stood on two feet like a person, though its feet were clawed. It was only about as tall as two fists atop one another, but the way it turned its head as it looked at her showed unmistakable personality.
The thing only had a little bit of shell—on the nose and mouth—but the strangest part was its hair. It had bright green hair that covered its entire body. The hair lay flat, as if manicured. As she watched, the creature turned and began to pick at the hair—a large flap of it lifted up, and she could see it grew out of a central spine.
“What does the young lady think of my chicken?” the merchant said proudly, standing with hands clasped behind his back, ample stomach thrust forward like the prow of a ship. Behind, people moved through the fair in a throng. There were so many. Five hundred, perhaps even more, people in the same place.
“Chicken,” Shallan said, poking at the cage with a timid finger. “I’ve eaten chicken before.”
“Not this breed!” the Thaylen man said with a laugh. “Chickens for eating are stupid—this one is smart, almost as smart as a man! It can speak. Listen. Jeksonofnone! Say your name!”
“Jeksonofnone,” the creature said.
Shallan jumped back. The word was mangled by the creature’s inhuman voice, but it was recognizable. “A Voidbringer!” she hissed, safehand to her chest. “An animal that speaks! You’ll bring the eyes of the Unmade upon us.”
The merchant laughed. “These things live all over Shinovar, young lady. If their speech drew the Unmade, the entire country would be cursed!”
“Shallan!” Father stood with his bodyguards where he had been speaking to another merchant across the way. She hurried toward him, looking over her shoulder at the strange animal. Deviant though the thing was, if it could talk, she felt sorry for its being trapped in that cage.
The Middlefest Fair was a highlight of the year. Set during the midpeace—a period opposite the Weeping when there were no storms—it drew people from hamlets and villages all around. Many of the people here were from lands her father oversaw, including lesser lighteyes from families who had ruled the same villages for centuries.
The darkeyes came too, of course, including merchants—citizens of the first and second nahns. Her father didn’t speak of it often, but she knew he found their wealth and station inappropriate. The Almighty had chosen the lighteyes to rule, not these merchants.
“Come along,” Father said to her.
Shallan followed him and his bodyguards through the busy fair, which was laid out on her father’s estates about a half day’s travel from the mansion. The basin was fairly well sheltered, the slopes nearby covered in jella trees. Their strong branches grew spindly leaves—long spikes of pink, yellow, and orange, and so the trees looked like explosions of color. Shallan had read in one of her father’s books that the trees drew in crem, then used it to make their wood hard, like rock.
In the basin itself, most of the trees had been broken down, though some were instead used to hold up canopies dozens of yards wide, tied in place high above. They passed a merchant cursing as a windspren darted through his enclosure, making objects stick together. Shallan smiled, pulling her satchel out from under her arm. There wasn’t time to sketch, however, as her father barreled on toward the dueling grounds where—if this was like previous years—she would spend most of the fair.
“Shallan,” he said, causing her to scurry to catch up. At fourteen, she felt horribly gangly and far too boyish in figure. As womanhood had begun to come upon her, she had learned that she should be embarrassed by her red hair and freckled skin, as they were a mark of an impure heritage. They were traditional Veden colorings, but that was because—in their past—their lines had mixed with the Horneaters up in the peaks.
Some people were proud