He trudged through the underbrush and started helping tear down one of the crude tarp tents for the night’s march.
I am no storyteller, to entertain you with whimsical yarns.
—From Oathbringer, preface
A clamorous, insistent knocking woke Shallan. She still didn’t have a bed, so she slept in a heap of red hair and twisted blankets.
She pulled one of these over her head, but the knocking persisted, followed by Adolin’s annoyingly charming voice. “Shallan? Look, this time I’m going to wait to come in until you’re really sure I should.”
She peeked out at the sunlight, which poured through her balcony window like spilled paint. Morning? The sun was in the wrong place.
Wait … Stormfather. She’d spent the night out as Veil, then slept to the afternoon. She groaned, tossing off sweaty blankets, and lay there in just her shift, head pounding. There was an empty jug of Horneater white in the corner.
“Shallan?” Adolin said. “Are you decent?”
“Depends,” she said, voice croaking, “on the context. I’m decent at sleeping.”
She put hands over her eyes, safehand still wrapped in an improvised bandage. What had gotten into her? Tossing around the symbol of the Ghostbloods? Drinking herself silly? Stabbing a man in front of a gang of armed thugs?
Her actions felt like they’d taken place in a dream.
“Shallan,” Adolin said, sounding concerned. “I’m going to peek in. Palona says you’ve been in here all day.”
She yelped, sitting up and grabbing the bedding. When he looked, he found her bundled there, a frizzy-haired head protruding from blankets—which she had pulled tight up to her chin. He looked perfect, of course. Adolin could look perfect after a storm, six hours of fighting, and a bath in cremwater. Annoying man. How did he make his hair so adorable? Messy in just the right way.
“Palona said you weren’t feeling well,” Adolin said, pushing aside the cloth door and leaning in the doorway.
“Blarg.”
“Is it, um, girl stuff?”
“Girl stuff,” she said flatly.
“You know. When you … uh…”
“I’m aware of the biology, Adolin, thank you. Why is it that every time a woman is feeling a little odd, men are so quick to blame her cycle? As if she’s suddenly unable to control herself because she has some pains. Nobody thinks that for men. ‘Oh, stay away from Venar today. He sparred too much yesterday, so his muscles are sore, and he’s likely to rip your head off.’ ”
“So it’s our fault.”
“Yes. Like everything else. War. Famine. Bad hair.”
“Wait. Bad hair?”
Shallan blew a lock of it out of her eyes. “Loud. Stubborn. Oblivious to our attempts to fix it. The Almighty gave us messy hair to prepare us for living with men.”
Adolin brought in a small pot of warm washwater for her face and hands. Bless him. And Palona, who had probably sent it with him.
Damnation, her hand ached. And her head. She remembered occasionally burning off the alcohol last night, but hadn’t ever held enough Stormlight to completely fix the hand. And never enough to make her completely sober.
Adolin set the water down, perky as a sunrise, grinning. “So what is wrong?”
She pulled the blanket up over her head and pulled it tight, like the hood of a cloak. “Girl stuff,” she lied.
“See, I don’t think men would blame your cycle nearly as much if you all didn’t do the same. I’ve courted my share of women, and I once kept track. Deeli was once sick for womanly reasons four times in the same month.”
“We’re very mysterious creatures.”
“I’ll say.” He lifted up the jug and gave it a sniff. “Is this Horneater white?” He looked to her, seeming shocked—but perhaps also a little impressed.
“Got a little carried away,” Shallan grumbled. “Doing investigations about your murderer.”
“In a place serving Horneater moonshine?”
“Back alley of the Breakaway. Nasty place. Good booze though.”
“Shallan!” he said. “You went alone? That’s not safe.”
“Adolin, dear,” she said, finally pulling the blanket back down to her shoulders, “I could literally survive being stabbed with a sword through the chest. I think I’ll be fine with some ruffians in the market.”
“Oh. Right. It’s kind of easy to forget.” He frowned. “So … wait. You could survive all kinds of nasty murder, but you still…”
“Get menstrual cramps?” Shallan said. “Yeah. Mother Cultivation can be hateful. I’m an all-powerful, Shardblade-wielding pseudo-immortal, but nature still sends a friendly reminder every now and then to tell me I should be getting around to having children.”
“No mating,” Pattern buzzed softly on the wall.
“But I shouldn’t be blaming yesterday on that,” Shallan added to Adolin. “My time isn’t for another few weeks. Yesterday was more about psychology than it was about biology.”
Adolin set the jug down. “Yeah, well, you might want to watch out for the Horneater wines.”
“It’s not so bad,” Shallan said with a sigh. “I can burn away the intoxication with a little Stormlight. Speaking of which, you don’t have any spheres with you, do you? I seem to have … um … eaten all of mine.”
He chuckled. “I have one. A single sphere. Father lent it to me so I could stop carrying a lantern everywhere in these halls.”
She tried to bat her eyelashes at him. She wasn’t exactly sure how one did that, or why, but it seemed to work. At the very least, he rolled his eyes and handed over a single ruby mark.
She sucked in the Light hungrily. She held her breath so it wouldn’t puff out when she breathed, and … suppressed the Light. She could do that, she’d found. To prevent herself from glowing or drawing attention. She’d done that as a child, hadn’t she?
Her hand slowly reknit, and she let out a relieved sigh as the headache vanished as well.
Adolin was left with a dun sphere. “You know, when my father explained that good relationships required investment, I don’t think this is what he meant.”
“Mmm,” Shallan said, closing her eyes and smiling.
“Also,” Adolin added, “we have the strangest conversations.”
“It feels natural to have them with you, though.”
“I think that’s the oddest part. Well, you’ll want to start being more careful with your Stormlight. Father mentioned he was trying to get you more infused spheres for practice, but there just aren’t any.”
“What about Hatham’s people?” she said. “They left out lots of spheres in the last highstorm.” That had only been …
She did the math, and found herself stunned. It had been weeks since the unexpected highstorm where she’d first worked the Oathgate. She looked at the sphere between Adolin’s fingers.
Those should all have gone dun by now, she thought. Even the ones renewed most recently. How did they have any Stormlight at all?
Suddenly, her actions the night before seemed even more irresponsible. When Dalinar had commanded her to practice with her powers, he probably hadn’t meant practicing how to avoid getting too drunk.