A human emotion. Kaladin recognized it. MEN CANNOT BE TRUSTED, CHILD OF TANAVAST. YOU HAVE TAKEN HER FROM ME. MY BELOVED ONE.
The face seemed to withdraw, fading.
“Please!” Kaladin screamed. “How can I fix it? What can I do?”
IT CANNOT BE FIXED. SHE IS BROKEN. YOU ARE LIKE THE ONES WHO CAME BEFORE, THE ONES WHO KILLED SO MANY OF THOSE I LOVE. FAREWELL, SON OF HONOR. YOU WILL NOT RIDE MY WINDS AGAIN.
“No, I—”
The storm returned. Kaladin collapsed back into the alcove, gasping at the sudden restoration of pain and cold.
“Kelek’s breath!” Shallan said. “What was that?”
“You saw the face?” Kaladin asked.
“Yes. So vast . . . I could see stars in it, stars upon stars, infinity . . .”
“The Stormfather,” Kaladin said, tired. He reached around beneath him for something that was suddenly glowing. A sphere, the one Shallan had dropped earlier. It had gone dun, but was now renewed.
“That was amazing,” she whispered. “I need to draw it.”
“Good luck,” Kaladin said, “in this rain.” As if to punctuate his point, another wave of it washed over them. It would swirl in between the chasms, twisting about and sometimes blowing back at them. They sat in water a few inches deep, but it didn’t threaten to pull them away again.
“My poor drawings,” Shallan said, pulling her satchel to her breast with her safehand as she held to him—the only thing to hold to—with her other. “The satchel is waterproof, but . . . I don’t know that it’s highstorm-proof.”
Kaladin grunted, staring out at the rushing water. There was a mesmerizing pattern to it, surging with broken plants and leaves. No corpses, not anymore. The flowing water rose in a large bump before them, as if rushing over something large beneath. The chasmfiend’s carcass, he realized, was still wedged down there. It was too heavy for even the flood to budge.
They fell silent. With light, the need to speak had passed, and though he considered confronting her about what he was increasingly sure she was, he said nothing. Once they were free, there would be time.
For now, he wanted to think—though he was still glad for her presence. And aware of it in more ways than one, pushed against him and wearing the wet, increasingly tattered dress.
His conversation with the Stormfather, however, drew his attention away from that sort of thought.
Syl. Had he really . . . killed her? He had heard her weeping earlier, hadn’t he?
He tried, just out of futile experimentation, to pull in some Stormlight. He kind of wanted Shallan to see, to gauge her reaction. It didn’t work, of course.
The storm slowly passed, the floodwaters receding bit by bit. After the rains slackened to the level of an ordinary storm, the waters started flowing in the other direction. It was as he’d always assumed, though never seen. Now rain was falling more on the ground west of the Plains than on the Plains themselves, and the drainage was all to the east. The river churned—far more lethargically—back out the way it had come.
The chasmfiend’s corpse emerged from the river. Then, finally, the flood was done—the river reduced to a trickle, the rain a drizzle. The drops that dripped from the plateaus above were far larger and heavier than the rain itself.
He shifted to move to climb down, but realized that Shallan, curled up against him, had fallen asleep. She snored softly.
“You must be the only person,” he whispered, “to ever fall asleep while outside in a highstorm.”
Uncomfortable though he was, he realized he really didn’t fancy the idea of climbing down with this wounded leg. Strength sapped, feeling a crushing darkness at what the Stormfather had said about Syl, he let himself succumb to the numbness, and fell asleep.
The cosmere itself may depend upon our restraint.
“At least speak with him, Dalinar,” Amaram said. The man walked quickly to match Dalinar’s pace, his cloak of the Knights Radiant billowing behind him, as they inspected the lines of troops loading up wagons with supplies for the trip out onto the Shattered Plains. “Come to an accommodation with Sadeas before you leave. Please.”
Dalinar, Navani, and Amaram passed a group of spearmen running to get into place with their battalion, which was counting ranks. Just beyond them, the men and women of the camp acted similarly excited. Cremlings scuttled this way and that, moving through pools of water left by the storm.
Last night’s highstorm was the final one of the season. Sometime tomorrow, the Weeping would begin. Wet though it