“When you arrived in our land,” Shallan said, “you used an Oathgate to get from Shadesmar to the Physical Realm?”
“No.” Azure laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t know of those until Kal told me about them. I used a portal between realms. Cultivation’s Perpendicularity, they call it. On your side, it’s in the Horneater Peaks.”
“That’s hundreds of miles from here,” Adolin said.
“There’s supposedly another perpendicularity,” Azure said. “It’s unpredictable and dangerous, and appears randomly in different places. My guides warned against trying to hunt it.”
“Guides?” Kaladin said. “Who were these guides?”
“Why, spren of course.”
Adolin glanced toward the distant city they’d left, where there had been fearspren and painspren aplenty.
“Not like those,” Azure said, laughing. “People spren, like these two.”
“Which raises a question,” Adolin said, pointing as the spren with the strange eyes rejoined them. “That’s the soul of my Shardblade. Syl is Kaladin’s, and Pattern Shallan’s. So…” He pointed at the weapon at her belt. “Tell us honestly, Azure. Are you a Knight Radiant?”
“No.”
Adolin swallowed. Say it. “You’re a Herald then.”
She laughed. “No. What? A Herald? Those are basically gods, right? I’m no figure from mythology, thank you very much. I’m just a woman who has been constantly out of her league since adolescence. Trust me.”
Adolin glanced at Kaladin. He didn’t seem convinced either.
“Really,” Azure said. “There’s no spren here for my Blade because it’s flawed. I can’t summon or dismiss it, like you can yours. She’s a handy weapon, but a pale copy of what you carry.” She patted it. “Anyway, when I last crossed this place, I hired a ship to convey me.”
“A ship?” Kaladin said. “Sailed by whom?”
“Spren. I hired it at one of their cities.”
“Cities?” Kaladin looked toward Syl. “You have cities?”
“Where did you think we lived?” Syl said, amused.
“Lightspren are usually guides,” Azure continued. “They like to travel, to see new places. They sail all across Roshar’s Shadesmar, peddling goods, trading with other spren. Um … you’re supposed to watch out for Cryptics.”
Pattern hummed happily. “Yes. We are very famous.”
“What about using Soulcasting?” Adolin looked to Shallan. “Could you make us supplies?”
“I don’t think it would work,” Shallan replied. “When I Soulcast, I change an object’s soul here in this realm, and it reflects in the other world. If I changed one of these beads, it might become something new in the Physical Realm—but it would still be a bead to us.”
“Food and water aren’t impossible to find here,” Azure said, “if you can make it to a port city. The spren don’t need these things, but humans living on this side—and there are some—need a constant supply. With that Stormlight of yours, we can trade. Maybe buy passage to the Horneater Peaks.”
“That would take a long time,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar is falling right now, and the Blackthorn needs us. It—”
He was interrupted by a haunting screech. It was reminiscent of sheets of steel grinding against one another. It was met by others, echoing in unison. Adolin spun toward the sounds, shocked by their intensity. Syl put her hands to her lips, and Pattern cocked his strange head.
“What was that?” Kaladin demanded.
Azure hurriedly began shoving their supplies into Kaladin’s pack. “You remember before we slept, how I said we’d be fine unless we attracted the wrong spren?”
“… Yes?”
“We should get moving. Now.”
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Dalinar stumbled as he swept everything from the dresser, upending a bowl of hot soup. He didn’t want soup. He yanked out drawers, dumping clothing to the ground, steam curling from the spilled broth.
They’d done it again! They’d taken his bottles. How dare they! Couldn’t they hear the weeping? He roared, then grabbed his trunk, overturning it. A flask rolled out along with the clothing. Finally! Something they hadn’t found.
He slurped down the dregs it contained, and groaned. The weeping echoed around him. Children dying. Evi begging for her life.
He needed more.
But … wait, did he need to be presentable? The hunt? Was that today?
Stupid man, he thought. The last of the hunts had been weeks ago. He’d convinced Gavilar to come with him out into the wilderness, and the trip had gone well. Dalinar had been presentable—sober, commanding even. A figure right from the storming songs. They’d discovered those parshmen. They’d been so interesting.
For a time, away from civilization, Dalinar had felt like himself. His old self.
He hated that person.
Growling, he dug in his large wardrobe. This fort on the eastern rim of Alethkar was the first mark of civilization on their trip home. It had given Dalinar access, again, to the necessities of life. Like wine.
He barely heard the rap on his door as he flung coats out of the wardrobe. When he looked over, he saw two youths standing there. His sons. Angerspren boiled around him. Her hair. Her judgmental eyes. How many lies about him had she stuffed into their heads?
“What?” Dalinar roared.
Adolin stood his ground. Almost seventeen now, fully a man. The other one, the invalid, cringed down. He looked younger than his … what … twelve years? Thirteen?
“We heard the commotion, sir,” Adolin said, jutting out his chin. “We thought you might need help.”
“I need nothing! Out! GET OUT!”
They scrambled away.
Dalinar’s heart raced. He slammed the wardrobe and pounded his fists on the bedside table, toppling the sphere lamp. Puffing, groaning, he fell to his knees.
Storms. They were only a few days’ march from the ruins of Rathalas. Was that why the screaming was louder today?
A hand fell on his shoulder. “Father?”
“Adolin, so help me—” Still kneeling, Dalinar turned, then cut off. It wasn’t Adolin, but the other one. Renarin had returned, timid as always, his spectacled eyes wide and his hand trembling. He held something out.
A small bottle. “I…” Renarin swallowed. “I got you one, with the spheres the king gave me. Because you always go through what you buy so quickly.”
Dalinar stared at that bottle of wine for an endless moment. “Gavilar hides the wine from me,” he mumbled. “That’s why none is left. I … couldn’t possibly … have drunk it all.…”
Renarin stepped in and hugged him. Dalinar flinched, bracing as if for a punch. The boy clung to him, not letting go.
“They talk about you,” Renarin said, “but they’re wrong. You just need to rest, after all the fighting you did. I know. And I miss her too.”
Dalinar licked his lips. “What did she tell you?” he said, voice ragged. “What did your mother say about me?”
“The only honest officer in the army,” Renarin said, “the honorable soldier. Noble, like the Heralds themselves. Our father. The greatest man in Alethkar.”