proof of that. Perhaps this was what the Ghostbloods were seeking: blackmail material. Stormwardens, as male scholars, made most people uncomfortable. Their use of glyphs in a way that was basically the same as writing, their secretive nature . . . Amaram was one of the most accomplished generals in all of Alethkar. He was respected even by those he fought. Exposing him as a stormwarden could seriously damage his reputation.
Why would he bother with such strange hobbies? All of these maps faintly reminded her of the ones she’d discovered in her father’s study, after his death—though those had been of Jah Keved. “Watch outside, Pattern,” she said. “Bring me word quickly when Amaram returns to the building.”
“Mmmm,” he buzzed, withdrawing.
Aware that her time was short, Shallan hurried to the wall, holding up her sphere and taking Memories of the maps. The Shattered Plains? This map was far more extensive than any she’d seen before—and that included the Prime Map that she’d studied in the king’s Gallery of Maps.
How had Amaram obtained something so extensive? She tried to work out the use of glyphs—there was no grammar to them that she could see. Glyphs weren’t meant to be used that way. They conveyed a single idea, not a string of thoughts. She read a few in a row.
Origin . . . direction . . . uncertainty. . . . The place of the center is uncertain? That was probably what it meant.
Other notes were similar, and she translated in her head. Perhaps pushing this direction will yield results. Warriors spotted watching from here. Other groupings of glyphs made no sense to her. This script was bizarre. Perhaps Pattern could translate it, but she certainly couldn’t.
Aside from the maps, the walls were covered in long sheets of paper filled with writing, figures, and diagrams. Amaram was working on something, something big—
Parshendi! she realized. That’s what those glyphs mean. Parap-shenesh-idi. The three glyphs individually meant three separate things—but together, their sounds made the word “Parshendi.” That was why some of the writings seemed like gibberish. Amaram was using some glyphs phonetically. He underlined them when he did this, and that allowed him to write in glyphs things that never should have worked. The stormwardens really were turning glyphs into a full script.
Parshendi, she translated, still distracted by the nature of the characters, must know how to return the Voidbringers.
What?
Remove secret from them.
Reach center before Alethi armies.
Some of the writings were lists of references. Though they’d been translated to glyphs, she recognized some of the quotes from Jasnah’s work. They referred to the Voidbringers. Others were purported sketches of Voidbringers and other creatures of mythology.
This was it, full proof that the Ghostbloods were interested in the same things Jasnah was. As was Amaram, apparently. Heart beating with excitement, Shallan turned around, looking over the room. Was the secret to Urithiru here? Had he found it?
There was too much for Shallan to translate fully at the moment. The script was too difficult, and her thumping heart made her too nervous. Besides, Amaram would likely return very soon. She took Memories so she could sketch this all out later.
As she did, the writings she translated in passing caused a new species of dread to rise within her. It seemed . . . it seemed that Highlord Amaram—paragon of Alethi honor—was actively trying to bring about the return of the Voidbringers.
I have to stay a part of this, Shallan thought. I can’t afford to have the Ghostbloods cast me out for making a mess of this incursion. I need to discover what else they know. And I have to know why Amaram is doing what he does.
She couldn’t just run tonight. She couldn’t risk leaving Amaram alerted that someone had infiltrated his secret room. She couldn’t botch this assignment.
Shallan had to craft better lies.
She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and slapped it onto the desk, then began to frantically draw.
* * *
Kaladin jumped off the wall at a careful speed, twisting to the side and landing back on the ground without breaking step. He wasn’t going very quickly, but at least he didn’t stumble anymore.
With each jump, he shoved the visceral panic farther down. Up, back onto the wall. Down again. Again and again, sucking in Stormlight.
Yes, this was natural. Yes, this was him.
He continued running along the chasm bottom, feeling a surge of excitement. Shadows waved him on as he dodged between piles of bone and moss. He leaped over a large