Shallan whimpered at the rage, the lack of humanity, in his eyes. As they focused on her, the life returned to them. Father dropped a broken chair and turned his back toward her, as if ashamed, before fleeing the room.

20. The Coldness of Clarity

Artform applied for beauty and hue.

One yearns for the songs it creates.

Most misunderstood by the artist it’s true,

Come the spren to foundation’s fates.

From the Listener Song of Listing, 90th stanza

The sun was a smoldering ember on the horizon, sinking toward oblivion, as Shallan and her little caravan neared the source of the smoke in front of them. Though the column had dwindled, she could now make out that it had three different sources, rising into the air and twisting into one.

She climbed to her feet on the rocking wagon as they rolled up one last hill, then stopped on the side, mere feet away from letting her see what was out there. Of course; cresting the hill would be a very bad idea if bandits waited below.

Bluth climbed down from his wagon and jogged forward. He wasn’t terribly nimble, but he was the best scout they had. He crouched and removed his too-fine hat, then made his way up the hillside to peek over. A moment later, he stood up straight, no longer attempting stealth.

Shallan hopped down from her seat and hurried over, skirts catching on the twisted branches of crustspines here and there. She reached the top of the hill just before Tvlakv did.

Three caravan wagons smoldered quietly below, and the signs of a battle littered the ground. Fallen arrows, a group of corpses in a pile. Shallan’s heart leaped as she saw the living among the dead. A scattering of tired figures combed through the rubble or moved bodies. They weren’t dressed like bandits, but like honest caravan workers. Five more wagons were clustered on the far side of the camp. Some were scorched, but they all looked functional and still laden with goods.

Armed men and women tended their wounds. Guards. A group of frightened parshmen cared for the chulls. These people had been attacked, but they had survived. “Kelek’s breath…” Tvlakv said. He turned and shooed Bluth and Shallan backward. “Back, before they see.”

“What?” Bluth said, though he obeyed. “But it’s another caravan, as we’d hoped.”

“Yes, and they needn’t know we are here. They might want to speak to us, and that could slow us. Look!” He pointed backward.

In the waning light, Shallan could make out a shadow cresting a hill not far behind them. The deserters. She waved for Tvlakv to surrender his spyglass, and he did so reluctantly. The lens was cracked, but Shallan still got a good look at the force. The thirty or so men were soldiers, as Bluth had reported. They flew no banner, and did not march in formation or wear one uniform, but they looked well equipped.

“We need to go down and ask the other caravan for help,” Shallan said.

“No!” Tvlakv said, snatching the spyglass back. “We need to flee! The bandits will see this richer but weakened group and will fall upon them instead of us!”

“And you think they won’t chase us after that?” Shallan said. “With our tracks so easily visible? You think they won’t run us down in the following days?”

“There should be a highstorm tonight,” Tvlakv said. “It might cover our tracks, blowing away the shells of the plants we crush.”

“Unlikely,” Shallan said. “If we stand with this new caravan, we can add our little strength to theirs. We can hold. It—”

Bluth held up a hand suddenly, turning. “A noise.” He spun around, reaching for his cudgel.

A figure stood up nearby, hidden by shadows. Apparently, the caravan below had a scout of its own. “You led them right toward us, did you?” asked a woman’s voice. “What are they? More bandits?”

Tvlakv held up his sphere, which revealed the scout to be a lighteyed woman of medium height and wiry build. She wore trousers and a long coat that almost looked like a dress, buckled at the waist. She wore a tan glove over her safehand, and spoke Alethi without an accent.

“I…” Tvlakv said. “I am just a humble merchant, and—”

“The ones chasing us are certainly bandits,” Shallan cut in. “They have chased us all day.”

The woman cursed, raising a spyglass of her own. “Good equipment,” she mumbled. “Deserters, I’d guess. As if this weren’t bad enough. Yix!”

A second figure stood up nearby, wearing tan clothing the color of stone. Shallan jumped. How had she missed spotting him? He was so close! He had a sword at his waist. A lighteyes? No, a foreigner, judging by that golden hair. She never was sure what eye color meant for their social standing. There weren’t people with light eyes in the Makabaki region, though they had kings, and practically everyone in Iri had light yellow eyes.

He jogged over, hand on his weapon, watching Bluth and Tag with overt hostility. The woman said something to him in a tongue Shallan didn’t know, and he nodded, then jogged off toward the caravan below. The woman followed.

“Wait,” Shallan called to her.

“I don’t have time to talk,” the woman snapped. “We’ve got two bandit groups to fight.”

“Two?” Shallan said. “You didn’t defeat the one that attacked you earlier?”

“We fought them off, but they’ll be back soon.” The woman hesitated on the side of the hill. “The fire was an accident, I think. They were using flaming brands to scare us. They pulled back to let us fight the fires, as they didn’t want to lose any more goods.”

Two forces, then. Bandits ahead and behind. Shallan found herself sweating in the cold air as the sun finally vanished beneath the western horizon.

The woman was looking northward, toward where her group of bandits must have retreated. “Yeah, they’ll be back,” the woman said. “They’ll want to be done with us before the storm comes tonight.”

“I offer you my protection,” Shallan found herself saying.

“Your protection?” the woman said, turning back to Shallan, sounding baffled.

“You may accept me and mine into your camp,” Shallan said. “I will see to your safety tonight. I will need your service after that to convey me to the Shattered Plains.”

The woman laughed. “You are gutsy, whoever you are. You can join our camp, but you’ll die there with the rest of us!”

Cries rose from the caravan. A second later, a flight of arrows fell through the night from that direction, pelting wagons and caravan workers.

Screams.

Bandits followed, emerging from the blackness. They weren’t nearly as well equipped as the deserters, but they didn’t need to be. The caravan had fewer than a dozen guards left. The woman cursed and started running down the hillside.

Shallan shivered, eyes wide at the sudden slaughter below. Then she turned and walked to Tvlakv’s wagons. This sudden chill was familiar to her. The coldness of clarity. She knew what she had to do. She didn’t know if it would work, but she saw the solution—like lines in a drawing, coming together to transform random scribbles into a full picture.

“Tvlakv,” she said, “take Tag below and try to help those people fight.”

Tags: Brandon Sanderson The Stormlight Archive Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net