Chapter 29

Those who offer blanket condemnation are fools, for each situation deserves its own consideration, and rarely can you simply apply a saying—even one of mine—to a situation without serious weighing of the context.

—From The Way of Kings , fourth parable

S hallan’s jaw dropped as she lay on the floor of the Ghostblood hideout. She stared, like an eel gasping for breath, at the space where Mraize and the others had vanished. How? The bizarre impossibility of it made the pain of her wound fade for the moment. That had been …

… them transferring to Shadesmar. Like Jasnah could do. Had Sja-anat saved them? No. One of them was an Elsecaller, or perhaps a Willshaper. A corrupted version of a Radiant.

Renarin doesn’t like us to think of them that way, she thought with a wince, remembering her pain.

Well, it seemed she’d been wrong about the Ghostbloods having no experience with their abilities. Perhaps Iyatil had bonded a spren earlier than she’d assumed? She’d have to ask Sja-anat. For now, she held her bloodied side as Windrunners secured the room, several of them going after the Ghostbloods who had escaped.

“Shallan!” Darcira said, kneeling by her. Shallan hadn’t seen the other Lightweaver enter. “You’re hurt! How? You didn’t summon your armor?”

“Anti-Light,” Shallan said with a grunt. “I couldn’t afford to let it hit the armor—don’t know what it will do to the spren.” She grimaced. “The bolt went in too low to hit my lung, otherwise I’d be coughing blood all over the floor. Grazed between my ribs though—I can feel it.” Shallan braced herself. “Pull it out. It’s injecting anti-Stormlight.”

The other woman did so, and Shallan squeezed her eyes shut against the agony. She breathed in and out, shallow breaths to control the pain, and continued to feel that coldness in her veins. The anti-Light pulsed with a strange, off-key sound. Like the scrape of bone on rock. It faded slowly.

She opened her eyes and could see it evaporating from her skin, along with the painspren crawling around—several the wrong color. The anti-Light wisps soon vanished. Shallan waited a little longer, but she was getting light-headed. So at last she drew in a deep breath, filling herself with Stormlight. The power went to work immediately, and she didn’t explode, which was nice.

“We shouldn’t have sent you in alone,” Darcira said.

“Alone? Darcira, we both know my ego is big enough to count for between two and four people, depending on the day and my mood.” Shallan took a long, ragged breath, and when she breathed out, less Stormlight left her than it normally did. An elevated oath meant everything she did was more efficient: she healed better, Stormlight stayed longer, and she was less … porous to its escape.

Darcira pulled her bloodied handkerchief away from the wound. “At least that’s good conventional armor you have on, for leathers. Seems to have absorbed much of the force. At such close range, I’d have expected the bolt to go straight out the other side, but it barely punctured the armor on your back.”

“Perhaps it got lost,” Shallan said. “Take it from one who lives in here—my insides can be confusing.”

“No, really,” Darcira said. “I don’t think this is hogshide. It’s something else. Probably from … you know …”

Right. She was wearing the carcass of a beast from some other planet, its skin smoother and thicker than that of a hog. Storms. What a surreal realization. Shallan found her feet and wiped her hands on a cloth Jayn provided, as she and the other Lightweavers joined them from the trophy room.

“What took so long?” Shallan asked them. “Feels like forever since I gave the signal.”

“Erinor spoke to the stones,” Darcira said. “Got the impression there was a secret exit down into the chasms. We were just exploring it when you hit the signal—and suddenly people started fleeing that way.”

“We figured we’d grab them as they came out, while sending support to you,” Jayn said. “You must have frightened them something awful, Brightness. They came charging through without checking first!” She grimaced. “Sorry to let you get hit …”

“I took it intentionally,” Shallan said, feeling sturdy, even excited, now that she had Stormlight in her veins. Jayn held up her satchel, the shoulder strap tied haphazardly, the leather dimpled with Pattern, who apparently had followed her instructions and found the others. Shallan slung the satchel over her shoulder.

“Mmm …” Pattern said, moving onto her clothing. “I am very glad you did not get killed while I was not here. I should like to be there when you die. It is a thing friends do for friends.”

Shallan walked to the spot where Mraize and the others had vanished. Could she follow? Her powers had a strange relationship with Shadesmar. She’d always had trouble with this, from the first time she’d experimented in Kharbranth.

Or … no … that hadn’t been the first time …

As the other Radiants continued exploring—Shallan was particularly happy to have captured those trophies for study—she drew on the Stormlight to peek into another world, full of churning spheres and a cold sun. She held herself back and just looked, seeking …

Three people on a small boat pulled by mandras, heading for a nearby platform with massive spren overhead. Mraize, Iyatil, and Lieke. One tall figure, two short. They had planned this special means of escape, and were heading to Urithiru. Their cell here had suffered a terrible blow—but they’d already set something in motion with Dalinar. A plot to find Ba-Ado-Mishram, the Unmade.

She almost tried pulling herself all the way into Shadesmar, something she wasn’t supposed to be able to do with her powers—but which she’d done before regardless. Two bonds. Two spren. Storms, that explained some curious events in her past; instead of her pulling them into her realm, they pulled her somewhat into theirs.

She blinked, dismissing the vision. She shouldn’t face the Ghostbloods alone, but she had an idea about who to go to for help.

“So,” Lift said, gnawing the last remnants of meat from a bone, “that’s how you build an exploding chamber pot.”

Gavinor—the five-year-old son of King Elhokar, current heir to Alethkar—nodded solemnly. He was small for his age; people often thought he was much younger. Lift didn’t, as she’d known kids like him in orphanages. Kids who had seen too much.

The two of them sat on a table outside the room where Dalinar, Navani, and Wit were explaining something to Sebarial and Aladar. As they’d passed, Dalinar had specifically told her not to try to sneak in.

Storming Dalinar. Storming Wit and his storming stupid secrecy. Lift knew stuff. She coulda been inside, listening to the important talk.

At least nobody in here—the conference room for planning upcoming battles—kicked her out. She was Radiant, first Edgedancer they’d found, thank you very much. But she didn’t lead her order. That was starving Baramaz and her starving perfect teeth and short black hair that had just the right amount of curl. She smiled too much. Granted, Baramaz didn’t fall over as much when she used her powers. But Lift hardly fell over when she used her powers these days.

In a stroke of good luck, Sigzil walked by. She followed him with her eyes, absently lowering the bone from her lips.

“You often stare at that one, mistress,” Wyndle said, forming next to her as a pile of vines. He liked the changes in the tower, because they let him appear to anyone. These days he commonly made a funny-looking face to interact, one like his face on the other side. Full and round, with mustachios and gemstone eyes that looked like spectacles. He didn’t think it was funny-looking, of course. Pigs didn’t know they stank either.

“I don’t stare at him,” Lift said, watching the Azish Windrunner give orders to subordinates. So confident, yet so studious. Not a brute, like so many of the Alethi. He had thoughts. He was smart. Not so tall as to be intimidating, but tall enough to be striking.

“Pardon,” Wyndle said, “but you’re staring right now.”

“Do you think,” Lift said, “he likes poetry?”

“Who doesn’t?” Wyndle said. “Ooh, I’ve written seventeen poems about the delightful nature of Iriali footstools!”

“Shut up,” Lift said. “Gav. Do you think he likes poetry?”

“I … don’t know what that is,” Gav said.

“Yeah,” Lift said, still watching Sigzil. Then she added, “I don’t either.”

“What?” Wyndle said.

“It’s just a term I’ve heard girls say. Somethin’ about words’n’shit, right?”

Wyndle sighed. “Mistress, please don’t use such crude terminology.”

“That sword ardent does it.”

“Zahel is not a role model.” Wyndle drew himself up tall. “You are a Knight Radiant. A beacon of hope for all people. You should not be using vulgarities—besides, you’re not even using that word correctly. It doesn’t make sense in such a linguistic context.”

“That’s how he uses it,” she muttered. He talked strange sometimes. Weird and interesting.

Nobody had seen him since the attack on the tower though. Probably off sleeping somewhere. He was smart, that one. Always seemed to know when someone was gonna make him do something, so he got out of there quick.

Still, Lift probably should be a better role model. “Gav,” she said to the prince, “forget you heard me say that word.”

“Poetry?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sure. That’s the one. Bad word, that.”

Gav nodded solemnly. Yes, that kid was way too serious. She’d actively worked to befriend Gav this last year, after his rescue from Kholinar. Fortunately, he hadn’t been in the tower during the invasion; he’d been with his grandfather on campaign.

He didn’t say much. Lift had learned that sometimes to listen—and really hear people—you also had to be there when they didn’t talk.

Today though, he opened up more than usual. “Lift? Do you think Grampa and Gram … want me? Are they sad they have to take care of me?”

Lift didn’t put her arm around the kid, though she wanted to. He flinched when nonfamily did that, and you had to learn to see stuff like that. Hugs weren’t always for you.

But she did give him a nudge in the side. “They love you. Big folk is always busy, so sometimes they forget that we’re people an’ like to make choices too.”

He nodded, looking at the closed door across the room. “You sneak in where you’re not supposed to be.”

“Yup!”

“That’s wrong. You shouldn’t do that.”

“Gav,” she said, “sometimes you gotta do the things you ain’t supposed to do.”

“Why?”

“This world,” she said, “it’s fulla stuff that people think you ain’t supposed to do, but which is actually okay. It’s also full of stuff you really, really shouldn’t do. Nobody tells you which is which, so you gotta find the difference.”

“That’s hard.”

“Sure is,” she said, and eyed the vents on the wall.

“You gonna try again?” Gav asked. “Despite what he said?”

“Maybe,” Lift said. “You gotta be careful with Dalinar. He’s real old—like, old as mountains and shi … um … stuff. But somehow, he don’t know that there’s things a person should do that everyone says ain’t right. You know?”

Gav looked at her, baffled.

“Just trust me,” Lift said. “Oh! Hey, I remembered. Tower, you there?”

The tower spren appeared beside her as a column of light stretching between discs on the floor and ceiling. The spren liked Lift on account of her being awesome. Really strange that more people didn’t feel the same.

“What?” the Sibling said.

“You found my chicken yet?” Lift asked.

“There is no chicken meeting your description in my halls.”

“It’s here!” Lift said. “Look again. It’s red, and has a beak and feathers. And it says stuff. Like a person. ”

“You’ve described it many times, Lift.”

“It was hurt an’ scared. They took it when I was inna cage. You gotta find it, so I can help it.”

The Sibling didn’t respond. Those awful people must have taken the chicken somewhere—that guy with the scar and too many smiles. Lift would find it. Next to her, Wyndle grew a vine and patted her on the back, which was nice.

Better, soon Drehy flew in to give a report. And Damnation, did he need a uniform that tight? Lift leaned to the side, so she could see better when he bent over the table with the maps. Damnation.

“That one?” Wyndle said. “He’s completely the opposite of Sigzil. Why do you stare at that one?”

“If you need to ask,” Lift said, “then you have no sense of taste whatsoever.”

“He’s married, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning farther to the side. “His husband’s hot too. Seems unfair. You’re hot, you can fly, and you have a hot husband? Windrunners, Wyndle, I’m tellin’ ya. Something’s up with them. You know, I ain’t never seen one o’ them run into a wall? Not even a small wall.”

“Wyndle,” Gav said softly, “do spren have families?”

“Why, yes they do, Your Highness!” Wyndle said. “Though we require only one parent, so many spren do not pair bond. But it’s also not uncommon for us to do so! Why, even formal marriage isn’t unheard of. I have a mother, who is a dear and kind soul who spends her time gardening shoes.”

Gav nodded, knees drawn up against his chest, staring at the ground. “My mother gave me to Voidbringers,” he said softly, “to be tormented and killed.”

Lift winced.

“I think she’s dead now,” Gav continued, his voice even softer. “They won’t tell me straight. I’m too young. But my father is dead. He was killed trying to rescue me …”

“It is …” Wyndle said. “I mean … I’m sorry.”

“He was very brave,” Gav whispered. “I don’t remember what he looked like, but he was very brave. He wanted me. He came to save me. Then he … then he was slain by the traitor, Vyre.”

“Hey,” Lift said, nudging him. “Hey.”

Gav looked at her.

She reached her hand toward him, two fingers out. He slowly did the same, locking his two fingers into hers. Their secret handshake. The secret was that secret handshakes were stupid, but sometimes you used them anyway. Mostly for making scared friends feel like they belonged.

“You’ve got a place now,” she said. “Remember.”

He nodded. He’d need more reminders. Just like she did sometimes.

“Oh, yes!” Wyndle said. “You have grandparents who love you!”

“Grampa was going to play swords with me today,” Gav said, wiping his nose.

“Yes, well,” Wyndle said, “the world is kind of in the middle of ending. Takes precedence, I should imagine.”

“I’m gonna learn,” Gav said, a small angerspren pooling beneath him, like bubbling blood. “How to use a Shardblade. How to fight. Then I’m gonna find everyone who hurt my father, and I’m going to kill them. I’m gonna make their eyes burn out and then, when they’re dead, I’ll chop them to pieces.”

He looked to Lift, then glanced back down, ashamed.

“Yeah, all right,” she said. “I’ll hold them for you. Deal?”

He looked at her again, and finally—for the first time today—smiled. Yeah, revenge wasn’t gonna be as fun as he thought, and he probably needed to let go of it. But he was five. Right now he needed a friend, not someone else telling him to be mature.

Besides. Maturity stank. She resisted the urge to scratch at her wrap, which she wore bound around her chest. Then Sigzil walked past again, and she absently pulled another rib from her pocket and started chewing on it as she watched.

“How can you not want to grow up,” Wyndle said, “and still spend half your days ogling men? Don’t you see the contradiction?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”

“But your interest in men is obviously a manifestation of your advancement toward adulthood. You don’t seem to mind that, but you hate the secondary sex characteristics manifesting—”

“Hey Tower,” Lift said.

Again the little dancing column of light appeared—though she knew it would be invisible to other humans. Lift saw into the other realm a little. Something related to what had happened to her when she’d gone to the Nightwatcher, that lying liar who didn’t keep her promises.

“Yes?” the Sibling said.

“Are all cultivationspren like this?” Lift asked. “Or did I get stuck with the druff?”

“What is a druff?”

“Him.”

“There is great variety in the personalities of all spren, Lift,” the Sibling said. “So I’d have to say you got stuck with a druff. Whatever that is.”

She grunted, eyeing Wyndle.

“I like being a druff,” he said, chin out—though he didn’t really have a body, just vines and a head. “You’re lucky. You think just any spren would put up with your abuse?”

“It ain’t abuse,” Lift muttered. “It’s teasing.”

“You should feel grateful,” the tower said. “Wyndle is correct. Relatively few humans are chosen for the privilege of a Radiant bond.”

“Ah, what do you know?” she said. “You’re a building.”

“And?” the tower said.

“And people fart in you. Like all the time. I bet half the people in this room are doing it right now.”

“You realize,” the tower said, “you are host to millions of life-forms. They exist in your gut, on your skin, all over you.”

“What?” Lift said.

“Oh!” Wyndle said. “I’ve heard of this. Germs, yes! Wisdom of the Heralds. People with very detailed and specific life sense can feel them, I’m told! Millions upon millions of tiny creatures living on the skin of humans.”

“They particularly like the hair follicles,” the tower said. “I can feel them on you, Lift.”

Lift stared at her hands, aghast.

“And yes,” the Sibling added, “they live their entire lives there. Eating your dead skin flakes. Defecating on you. You are a tower like me, Lift. Every human is.”

“That is the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.” She looked to Gav. “Hey Gav. Did you know we have millions of tiny creatures living on us?”

“Gross!”

“I know! Awesome.”

“You were just saying,” the tower told her, “that I’m not worth listening to because I’m filled with things that fart!”

“And?” Lift said.

“And you are too! So nobody should listen to you either!”

“Gav,” Lift said. “Should anyone listen to us when we say things? About important stuff, I mean.”

“Of course not,” Gav said. “We’re kids.”

Lift looked to the glowing column of light and shrugged.

“I honestly have no idea why I started talking to you,” the tower said.

“It’s because you sensed Cultivation’s touch on her,” Wyndle said, completely missing the context of the tower’s complaint. As usual. What a druff.

But … well …

He did put up with her. Storms only knew she wouldn’t want to have to do that.

“Hey,” she said to Wyndle. “Thanks.”

“What for?” he asked, frowning at her.

She put out her hand, two fingers out and crooked, like a claw. He regarded it, then opened his eyes wide in shock. Trembling, he formed a hand from vines and met hers.

“I get the secret handshake ?” he whispered.

“Just don’t go sharin’ it,” she said.

“It must remain special,” Gav added.

“I … I’m honored,” Wyndle said.

Finally, at long last, the door into the other room opened. Wit, Dalinar, and Navani strode out—and headed straight for the lifts, determined expressions on their faces. Behind them, Aladar and Sebarial looked seriously disturbed.

Damnation. They’d decided something important.

“Grampa?” Gav said, standing up on the table. “We can play swords?”

Dalinar stopped amid generals and scholars. “There is something more I need to do, son. I’m sorry.”

Gav wilted like a plant with no water. He slumped back down on the table, drawing a long grey streamer of a gloomspren—and bearing the kind of expression no secret handshake could fix.

“You can come in the lift with us, Gav,” Navani said. “Spend a little time together. Come along.”

Eager, the boy hopped down and rushed over. The nursemaid joined them—she’d been helping herself to snacks, falsely assuming she could trust Gav with a Radiant. Lift fished the last pork rib from her pocket, eyeing the group as they left.

“Gram,” Gav said on the way, “what’s ‘shit’ mean?”

Lift winced. Maybe … maybe teaching the crown prince to cuss hadn’t been her smartest move. Secretly deep down, she was a bit of a druff, wasn’ t she?

“I’m impressed, mistress,” Wyndle said. “You didn’t demand to go with them!”

“I’m feelin’ kinda grown-up today,” Lift said. “On account of my good manners and full stomach.”

Wyndle nodded, satisfied. He glanced at her. Then he frowned. “You’re … going to follow them, aren’t you?”

“Storming right I am,” Lift said, hopping down. “I mean, I need more snacks, so I was planning to get up anyway …”