“Irresponsible,” Teft said.
“My father knew and sent him here first,” Kaladin reminded Teft. “I’m sure the ardents did what they could.”
“Go to level four, Brightlord,” she said. “Right near the center, along Northbeam and not quite to the Aladar Princedom.”
He set down the last of the cushions and nodded to Teft, and the two of them began the hike. Everything in Urithiru was a hike, especially on the lower floors.
Shallan always knew her way around just by the strata on the walls, which waved in colorful lines as different layers of rock had been cut through to make the tunnel. Kaladin considered himself good with directions, but he had to use the painted lines on the floor to get anywhere.
“Still can’t believe how much of this place hasn’t been explored,” Teft said as they walked.
“I suspect by now most of it has been explored,” Kaladin said. “Brightness Navani’s teams have mapped all the lower levels, and done walk-throughs of all the upper ones.”
“Walk-throughs, yes,” Teft said, eyeing a dark corridor. “But explored? You might walk the woods every day and never see one out of a hundred things in there watching you.”
As they struck inward, they saw fewer people. The lit areas—lined with Stormlight lanterns locked tight and bolted to the walls—dwindled behind, and they needed handheld spheres for light. There was a certain eeriness to these inner sections of the tower. Most everyone lived and worked on the rim. The only times they would strike inward would be to visit the atrium or one of the first-floor markets. He’d noted people taking long walks all the way around the rim to one of the lit corridors rather than cutting through the darker center. Storms, he’d found himself doing the same thing.
There was still space on the rim of the fifth and sixth floors, so why had this monastery chosen such an inward section? He was glad when they eventually reached a section of hallway that had permanent lanterns again. Paint on the floor indicated they were approaching Aladar’s princedom. A right turn at a large intersection with glyphs on the floor led them to the monastery—marked by a large wooden door blocking the way forward, painted with a glyphpair in the shape of the Vorin sword, indicating a religious building.
“Building” was, of course, a stretch. Generally for a small complex like this, people would find an area with a grouping of different-sized rooms and hallways and divide them off with a few doors at key entry points. Someone was monitoring the door, for it swung open as they approached, revealing a younger male ardent.
“Brightlord,” the man said, bowing. He squinted at Teft, trying to pick out his eye color. Then he bowed again. “Brightlord.”
Teft grumbled at that. These days, after being Radiant for as long as they had, their eyes rarely faded anymore. And there was no stopping him from complaining about being a lighteyes. Unlike Kaladin, who had gotten over it ages ago.
“If you have come to commission prayers or burn glyphwards, I would direct you toward the Devotary of Kelek, a little farther outward from here,” the ardent said, polishing a pair of spectacles and squinting at Kaladin. “We don’t take prayer commissions here.”
“Pardon,” Kaladin said. “But we’re not wanting prayers. Did you receive a patient recently who was missing an arm? His family is looking for him, and we’re helping track him down.”
“Can’t reveal patient information,” the man said in a bored tone, putting on his spectacles—then cursing softly and pulling them off again and rubbing them on his shirt, trying to get a spot he’d apparently missed. “I’d need the authorization of at least a highlord of the third dahn. Otherwise, speak to Sister Yara for normal visitation requests. I have a form somewhere for your wife to fill out.”
Teft glanced at Kaladin.
“You do it,” Kaladin said. “Syl’s out for her morning flight, and she’ll snap at me if I call her back early.”
Teft sighed and reached his hands out, making a silvery Shardspear appear. The Stormlight in the three nearest lanterns went out, streaming into him, setting his eyes aglow. A luminescent mist began to rise from his skin. Even his beard seemed to shine, and his clothing—once so pedestrian—rippled as he rose into the air about a foot.
The ardent stopped polishing his spectacles. He squinted at Teft, as if forgetting what was in his hands. “Oh. Brightlord Radiant,” he said, then bowed reverently first to Teft, then to Kaladin—though the man didn’t seem to recognize Kaladin. “Brightlord Radiant. I will see to your request.”
Kaladin didn’t much care for the reverence people showed them. People who had once spat after hearing someone speak of the “Lost Radiants” had turned around quickly when their highprince and their queen had each become one. It made Kaladin wonder how quickly these people might turn on them, if reverence suddenly became unfashionable.
That said, there were perks. Particularly with the ardents, who had quickly pointed out that Vorinism had always been closely aligned with the Knights Radiant. This one let them in now, absently tucking his spectacles in his robe’s breast pocket. He led them to a records room, stacked with ledgers and paper, and asked one of the ardents inside to watch the door while he saw to their “esteemed guests.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his tone, but he didn’t seem the enthusiastic type.
“One arm…” the ardent said, searching a ledger near the door.
“Name is Noril,” Teft said. “Doesn’t seem he’d have any reason to go by a false one.”
“He’s here, Brightlord,” the ardent said, leaning in close and pointing at words on the page. He patted at his robe’s lower pockets, as if searching for his spectacles. “He told us he has no living relatives though. Maybe it’s a different person. Ah, and he’s on watch for suicide, Brightlords. One unsuccessful attempt. A profoundly disturbed man.”
“Show us to him,” Kaladin said.
The ardent finally found his spectacles, but just started wiping them again. He led the way out of the records room and down a dark corridor lit by infrequently placed lanterns.
Kaladin followed, raising a sphere to give the place more light. As if it weren’t bad enough to be trapped deep in the tower, away from light and wind. Did they have to make it so dim as well? He couldn’t help but be reminded of his days in prison, following that time he’d helped Adolin in the arena. Kaladin had been locked up on dozens of occasions, but that one had felt the worst. Sitting in there fuming, stewing, festering. Feeling that the winds and the open sky had been stolen from him …
Dark times. Ones he’d rather not remember.
They passed door after door alongside the corridor, each marked by a numeric glyph. He saw not a few gloomspren around. The doors had small windows in them, but Kaladin assumed the dark cells beyond were unused—at least until he heard a voice muttering from one of them. At that, he stopped and held up his sphere, looking in. A woman sat in the featureless cell, her back to a bare wall, rocking back and forth as she muttered something unintelligible.
“How many of these rooms have people in them?” Kaladin asked.
“Hm? Oh, most of them,” the ardent said. “We’re a little understaffed, to be honest, Brightlord. We took in patients from most all the princedoms when we consolidated here. If you could bring the matter to the queen’s attention…”