her feet, dozens upon dozens, but so small she almost couldn’t make them out. The minds of fish?
She turned around and came face-to-face with a creature that had a symbol for a head. Startled, she screamed and jumped back. These things . . . they had haunted her . . . they . . .
It was Pattern. He stood tall and willowy, but slightly indistinct, translucent. The complex pattern of his head, with its sharp lines and impossible geometries, seemed to have no eyes. He stood with hands behind his back, wearing a robe that seemed too stiff to be cloth.
“Go,” he said. “Choose.”
“Choose what?” she said, Stormlight escaping her lips.
“Your ship.”
He did not have eyes, but she thought she could follow his gaze toward one of the little spheres on the glassy ground. She snatched it, and suddenly was given the impression of a ship.
The Wind’s Pleasure. A ship that had been cared for, loved. It had carried its passengers well for years and years, owned by Tozbek and his father before him. An old ship, but not ancient, still reliable. A proud ship. It manifested here as a sphere.
It could actually think. The ship could think. Or . . . well, it reflected the thoughts of the people who served on it, knew it, thought about it.
“I need you to change,” Shallan whispered to it, cradling the bead in her hands. It was too heavy for its size, as if the entire weight of the ship had been compressed to this singular bead.
“No,” the reply came, though it was Pattern who spoke. “No, I cannot. I must serve. I am happy.”
Shallan looked to him.
“I will intercede,” Pattern repeated. “. . . Translate. You are not ready.”
Shallan looked back to the bead in her hands. “I have Stormlight. Lots of it. I will give it to you.”
“No!” the reply seemed angry. “I serve.”
It really wanted to stay a ship. She could feel it, the pride it took, the reinforcement of years of service.
“They are dying,” she whispered.
“No!”
“You can feel them dying. Their blood on your deck. One by one, the people you serve will be cut down.”
She could feel it herself, could see it in the ship. They were being executed. Nearby, one of the floating candle flames vanished. Three of the eight captives dead, though she did not know which ones.
“There is only one chance to save them,” Shallan said. “And that is to change.”
“Change,” Pattern whispered for the ship.
“If you change, they might escape the evil men who kill,” Shallan whispered. “It is uncertain, but they will have a chance to swim. To do something. You can do them a last service, Wind’s Pleasure. Change for them.”
Silence.
“I . . .”
Another light vanished.
“I will change.”
It happened in a hectic second; the Stormlight ripped from Shallan. She heard distant cracks from the physical world as she withdrew so much Light from the nearby gemstones that they shattered.
Shadesmar vanished.
She was back in Jasnah’s cabin.
The floor, walls, and ceiling melted into water.
Shallan was plunged into the icy black depths. She thrashed in the water, dress hampering her movements. All around her, objects sank, the common artifacts of human life.
Frantic, she searched for the surface. Originally, she’d had some vague idea of swimming out and helping untie the sailors, if they were bound. Now, however, she found herself desperately even trying to find the way up.
As if the darkness itself had come alive, something wrapped around her.
It pulled her farther into the deep.
I seek not to use my grief as an excuse, but it is an explanation. People act strangely soon after encountering an unexpected loss. Though Jasnah had been away for some time, her loss was unexpected. I, like many, assumed her to be immortal.
—From the journal of Navani Kholin, Jesesach 1174
The familiar scraping of wood as a bridge slid into place. The stomping of feet in unison, first a flat sound on stone, then the ringing thump of boots on wood. The distant calls of scouts, shouting back the all-clear.
The sounds of a plateau run were familiar to Dalinar. Once, he had craved these sounds. He’d been impatient between runs, longing for the chance to strike down Parshendi with his Blade, to win wealth and recognition.
That Dalinar had been seeking to cover up his shame—the shame of lying slumped in a drunken stupor while his brother fought an assassin.
The setting of a plateau run was uniform: bare, jagged rocks, mostly the same dull color as the stone surface they sat