lucky. As Shallan scurried up the steps, Amaram turned toward just that door and raised a key, slipping it into the lock and turning it.
“Brightlord Amaram,” Shallan said, out of breath as she reached the top landing.
He turned toward her, frowning. “Telesh? Weren’t you going out tonight?”
Well, at least she knew her name now. Did Amaram really take such an interest in his servants as to be aware of a lowly maid’s evening plans?
“I did, Brightlord,” Shallan said, “but I came back.”
Need a distraction. But not something too suspicious. Think! Was he going to notice that the voice was different?
“Telesh,” Amaram said, shaking his head. “You still can’t choose between them? I promised your good father I’d see you cared for. How can I do that if you won’t settle down?”
“It’s not that, Brightlord,” Shallan said quickly. “Hav stopped a messenger on the perimeter coming for you. He sent me back to tell you.”
“Messenger?” Amaram said, slipping the key back out of the lock. “From whom?”
“Hav didn’t say, Brightlord. He seemed to think it was important, though.”
“That man . . .” Amaram said with a sigh. “He’s too protective. He thinks he can keep a tight perimeter in this mess of a camp?” The highlord considered, then stuffed the key back in his pocket. “Better see what it’s about.”
Shallan gave him a bow as he passed her by and trotted down the stairs. She counted to ten once he was out of sight, then scrambled to the door. It was still locked.
“Pattern!” Shallan whispered. “Where are you?”
He came out from the folds of her skirts, moving across the floor and then up the door until he was just before her, like a raised carving on the wood.
“The lock?” Shallan asked.
“It is a pattern,” he said, then grew very small and moved into the keyhole. She’d had him try a few more times on locks back in her rooms, and he’d been able to unlock those as he had Tyn’s trunk.
The lock clicked, and she opened the door and slipped into the dark room. A sphere plucked from her dress pocket lit it for her.
The secret room. The room with shutters always closed, kept locked at all times. A room that the Ghostbloods wanted so desperately to see.
It was filled with maps.
* * *
The trick to jumping between surfaces wasn’t the landing, Kaladin discovered. It wasn’t about reflexes or timing. It wasn’t even about changing perspective.
It was about fear.
It was about that moment when, hanging in the air, his body lurched from being pulled down to being pulled sideways. His instincts weren’t equipped to deal with this shift. A primal part of him panicked every time down stopped being down.
He ran at the wall and jumped, throwing his feet to the side. He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t flinch. It was like teaching himself to dive face-first onto a stone surface without raising his hands for protection.
He shifted his perspective and used Stormlight to make the wall become downward. He positioned his feet. Even still, in that brief moment, his instincts rebelled. The body knew, it knew, that he was going to fall back to the chasm floor. He would break bones, hit his head.
He landed on the wall without stumbling.
Kaladin stood up straight, surprised, and exhaled a deep breath, puffing with Stormlight.
“Nice!” Syl said, zipping around him.
“It’s unnatural,” Kaladin said.
“No. I could never be involved in anything unnatural. It’s just . . . extranatural.”
“You mean supernatural.”
“No I don’t.” She laughed and zipped on ahead of him.
It was unnatural—as walking wasn’t natural for a child who was just learning. It became natural over time. Kaladin was learning to crawl—and unfortunately, he’d soon be required to run. Like a child dropped in a whitespine’s lair. Learn quickly or be lunch.
He ran along the wall, hopping over a shalebark outcropping, then jumped to the side and shifted to the floor of the chasm. He landed with only a slight stumble.
Better. He ran after Syl and kept at it.
* * *
Maps.
Shallan crept forward, her solitary sphere revealing a room draped with maps and strewn with papers. They were covered in glyphs that had been scribbled quickly, not made to be beautiful. She could barely read most of them.
I’ve heard of this, she thought. The stormwarden script. The way they get around the restrictions on writing.
Amaram was a stormwarden? A chart of times on one wall, listing highstorms and calculations of their next arrival—written in the same hand as the notes on the maps—seemed