“This is wonderful,” he said. “And thank you. For helping me relax. You’re right—I can’t know what is coming. The entire situation could change by the time we reach the honorspren. I’ll try to remember that.” He wrapped his arm loosely around her, the skin of his hand brushing her face. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Help me get the clothing correct?” she asked, turning back to the peakspren page. “I feel like this garment pinned to the shoulder isn’t hanging right in the picture.…”
They moved on to light topics. A piece of Shallan felt like she should be doing something more important, but Veil whispered a promise. They’d worry about the spy on the next day. Work on something else for a while. Then approach the problem fresh.
You told Adolin about robbing Jasnah, Radiant said. Well done. It wasn’t so bad, was it?
No. It hadn’t been. But that was the least of her crimes. Others were darker, hidden deeply—so deeply she honestly couldn’t remember them. And didn’t want to.
Eventually, the strange mistspren drifted near. The creature’s free-form shape seemed like it would be difficult to capture in a sketch. Like steam, somehow trapped into a humanoid shape, contained by clothing and that strange mask.
She flipped to a new page and began drawing, but the spren—who had introduced herself as Dreaming-though-Awake—peeked at the sketchbook.
“Oh,” she said. “It is just me?”
“What did you expect?” Adolin asked.
“She mentioned the Unmade earlier,” Dreaming-though-Awake said. “I thought she might be drawing them.”
Shallan paused, lifting her pencil. “Do you know anything of the Unmade?”
“Hardly anything,” the spren said. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened to Ba-Ado-Mishram?” Shallan asked, eager. “What was she like? How did she Connect to the singers, and how did trapping her cause them to become parshmen?”
“Excellent questions,” the spren said.
“And…” Adolin prompted.
“I told you, I know hardly anything,” she replied. “I find the questions fascinating. What you wonder tells me so much.” She began to move off.
“Seriously?” Shallan said. “You don’t know anything about Ba-Ado-Mishram.”
“I was not alive when she was free,” the spren said. “If you wish to know more, ask the Heralds. I have heard several were there for her binding. Nalan. Kelek. Find them; ask them.” She walked off, more drifting than stepping, though she did have legs and feet.
“That one makes me uncomfortable,” Adolin said.
“Yeah,” Shallan said, setting aside the sketchbook and picking up her bowl of food—now cold, but still tasty. “But that’s comforting, in a way. Spren should be alien, should have their own ways of thinking and talking. I like that Dreaming-though-Awake is a little weird.”
“You simply like the company,” Adolin said.
She smiled, but the words the spren had said lingered with her. Heralds were there. And the Heralds were a major focus of the Sons of Honor—whose leader Mraize has sent me to hunt.
It was all connected. She had to figure out how to unravel it all. Without unraveling herself.
Whimsy was not terribly useful, and Mercy worries me. I do think that Valor is reasonable, and suggest you approach her again. It has been too long, in her estimation, since your last conversation.
“I’m sorry, Brightlord,” the ardent said as she walked through the room, picking up cushions from the floor and stacking them in her arms. “I do know the man you’re searching for, but he’s not here anymore.”
“You discharged him?” Kaladin asked, walking at her side.
“No, Brightlord. Not exactly.” She handed the stack of cushions to him, clearly expecting him to hold them as she walked to the next row and began gathering those.
Kaladin followed, balancing the stack of pillows. He and Teft were still trying to track down the refugee woman’s missing uncle. His name was Noril, and Kaladin’s father remembered the man. Not surprising, considering Lirin’s near-superhuman ability to recall people and faces.
Noril, who had lost an arm sometime in the past, had arrived in Hearthstone on the same day Kaladin had brought the flying ship. Noril had displayed signs of severe shock, so Lirin had taken extra care of him, making sure the man was on the airship for the flight to Urithiru.
After the ship arrived, things got chaotic. Overwhelmed by the number of refugees and their ailments, Lirin had sent Noril to the ardents. So, that was where Kaladin and Teft had come today. It felt odd to be spending so much time personally looking for one man when there were many patients to see. Coming here wasn’t particularly effective triage.
Unfortunately, that was a part of being a surgeon that Kaladin had never mastered. Giving up on one to save two others? Sure, it was great in principle. But doing it hurt.
Kaladin walked alongside the ardent while Teft leaned against the wall near the entrance to the room. It was otherwise empty, though some kind of training or teaching had plainly been going on earlier, judging by the rows of cushions.
“If you didn’t let Noril go,” Kaladin said, “what happened to him?”
“We sent him on,” the ardent explained. She was holding so many cushions, he couldn’t see her through them. “My devotary cares for physical ailments. We help rehabilitate those who have lost limbs, eyes, or their hearing in battle. He had only one arm, yes, but his wounds ran deeper.”
There were three cushions left on the floor, and when she tried to bend to pick them up, her stack teetered. So Kaladin held out his hand for her stack. Then he held out his other hand as well.
“You can’t carry them all,” she said. “Let’s…”
She trailed off as she saw what Kaladin had done. The stack he’d originally been holding—now Lashed upward just enough—remained floating in the air beside him.
“Oh,” she said, then inspected him more closely. “Oh! You’re Brightlord Stormblessed!”
Kaladin nudged the floating stack of cushions so they lazily floated over toward the far wall—where other unused cushions were piled—then took her stack.
The ardent quickly grabbed the last three, blushing as she walked him over to the wall. “I had no idea who you were! I’m sorry, Radiant.”
“It’s fine,” Kaladin said. “Don’t make anything of it, please.” As if being lighteyed wasn’t bad enough.
“Well, the man you want,” she said, “we couldn’t help him. We … did try to keep him rather than sending him on. We knew he was in bad shape, after all. But…”
“Bad shape?” Kaladin asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Last week we caught him trying to hang himself. The surgeon who sent him here warned us to watch for it, fortunately, so we saved him. Then we sent him on to the Devotary of Mercy. They care for those who … have trouble with their minds.”
“You knew he might be a danger to himself,” Teft said, walking up, “and you didn’t send him there immediately?”
“We … no,” she said. “We didn’t.”