to my father, and he is laughing. Laughing and holding her. We are all there, including Helaran. He never left. The people my mother knew . . . Dreder . . . never came to our home. Mother loves me. She teaches me philosophy, and she shows me how to draw.”
“Good,” the messenger said. “But you can do better than that. What is that place? What does it feel like?”
“It’s spring,” Shallan shot back, growing annoyed. “And the mossvines bloom a vigorous red. They smell sweet, and the air is moist from the morning’s highstorm. Mother whispers, but there is music to her tone, and Father’s laugh doesn’t echo—it rises high into the air, bathing us all.
“Helaran is teaching Jushu swords, and they spar nearby. Wikim laughs as Helaran is struck on the side of the leg. He is studying to be an ardent, as Mother wanted. I am sketching them all, charcoal scratching paper. I feel warm, despite the slight chill to the air. I have a steaming cup of cider beside me, and I taste the sweetness in my mouth from the sip I just took. It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been. I . . .”
She blinked tears. She saw it. Stormfather, but she saw it. She heard her mother’s voice, saw Jushu giving up spheres to Balat as he lost the duel, but laughing as he paid, uncaring of the loss. She could feel the air, smell the scents, hear the sounds of songlings in the brush. Almost, it became real.
Wisps of Light rose before her. The messenger had gotten out a handful of spheres and held them toward her while staring into her eyes. The steamy Stormlight rose between them. Shallan lifted her fingers, the image of her ideal life wrapped around her like a comforter.
No.
She drew back. The misty light faded.
“I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.”
Shadows from her past shifted in the depths, surfacing just briefly toward the light. “Could you help?”
“No. Not now. You aren’t ready, for one, and I have work to be about. Another day. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one, and make a path for the light. The things you fight aren’t completely natural.” He stood up, then bowed to her.
“My brother,” she said.
“He is in Alethkar.”
Alethkar? “Why?”
“Because that is where he feels he is needed, of course. If I see him again, I will give him word of you.” The messenger walked away on light feet, his steps smooth, almost like moves in a dance.
Shallan watched him go, the deep things within her settling again, returning to the forgotten parts of her mind. She realized she had not even asked the man his name.
When Simol was informed of the arrival of the Edgedancers, a concealed consternation and terror, as is common in such cases, fell upon him; although they were not the most demanding of orders, their graceful, limber movements hid a deadliness that was, by this time, quite renowned; also, they were the most articulate and refined of the Radiants.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 20, page 12
Kaladin reached the end of the line of bridgemen. They stood at attention, spears to shoulders, eyes forward. The transformation was marvelous. He nodded under the darkening sky.
“Impressive,” he said to Pitt, the sergeant of Bridge Seventeen. “I’ve rarely seen such a fine platoon of spearmen.”
It was the kind of lie that commanders learned to give. Kaladin didn’t mention how some of the bridgemen shuffled while they stood, or how their maneuvers in formation were sloppy. They were trying. He could sense it in their earnest expressions, and in the way they had begun taking pride in their uniforms, their identity. They were ready to patrol, at least close to the warcamps. He made a mental note to have Teft start taking them out in a rotation with the other two crews that were ready.
Kaladin was proud of them, and he let them know it as the hour stretched long and night arrived. He then dismissed them to their evening meal, which smelled quite different from Rock’s Horneater stew. Bridge Seventeen considered their nightly bean curry to be part of their identity. Individuality through meal choice; Kaladin found