Chapter 86

I offer my most sincere apology for everything wrong I’ve done. I am glad we tried. I am sorry that I continue to be someone with whom a relationship is nearly impossible.

K aladin found himself at peace as he laid out his tools to make dinner. Twilight had arrived on the seventh day.

He’d already acknowledged he wouldn’t make it back in time to see the contest. Now though, he felt that truth rather than merely admitting it.

With this came peace. For despite it all—everything he’d been through, the state he’d ended up in, the trauma he’d endured—a part of him had still assumed that he would become the champion Dalinar required. He’d believed, deep down, that he would return to Urithiru with the secrets of the Heralds—maybe even with Ishar—and save the day. Fight Odium’s champion. Win.

He left his vegetables set out on a cloth by the fire. Then took a long breath and lay on the hillside to look up at the stars. He and the others—after flying and walking all day—were near the Dustbringer monastery.

It was never going to be me, he thought. It was always going to be Dalinar himself. I knew that. He reached over and pulled a rolled bundle from his pack. The cloak Dalinar had given him. It made for a nice pillow as he stared at the stars. After a short time, he got out his flute. Dinner could wait.

He relaxed there and played it slowly. Because he enjoyed the art of it, and he thought that manifested in his notes.

In the sky above, his armor spren swirled about in patterns to the music. Syl eventually flew over, full sized, and lay down next to him, glowing softly, staring into the sky as he played. He wasn’t certain how long they remained there, because the softness of the grass seemed to invade his very being. Soft sound. Soft, fuzzy minutes. Soft ideas, offering quiet, pleasant companionship. Soft company.

He let the music trail off eventually and held the flute up, looking at it against the backdrop of stars. “Still no echoing music coming back to me.”

“You should be honored then,” Syl said. She rolled closer to him—leaving her hair frazzled. “The Wind likes your songs, Kaladin. She carries them away to cherish.”

He smiled, flipping the flute in his hand, like doing a miniature kata.

“I can’t believe how good you’ve become,” she said.

“I’m not good. I’m merely not awful.”

“After only seven days!”

“I only know one song, and that barely.”

“One song, in seven days. ” She poked him. “And it’s a beautiful one that reminds me of the song of Roshar itself. Just let me compliment you, all right?”

“All right,” he said. Then he went back to playing. He played for the people he’d lost, to remember them. The songs felt more real as he thought about those people. Goshel, Dallet, Tien, Nalma, Teft, Maps, and a dozen other members of Bridge Four. Men of his squads alongside slaves whose faces he’d almost forgotten, but whose companionship he would always treasure.

He worried that more of his friends might have died during this most recent fighting, though the spanreed had given no relevant news tonight. He played for them as well. A melancholy song, but not a painful one. With the song’s help, he felt … felt he could remember the fallen—but remarkably, not feel their loss was his fault.

Nale ruined the moment by stomping past. “I hate that song,” he said.

“Why?” Kaladin asked.

Nale didn’t reply. He tore into a pack and fished out a ration bar.

“Nale?” Kaladin called as he stomped past again. “Do Heralds eat ?”

“Heralds can eat,” he said. “We hunger if we do not. These bodies of ours are highly Invested, but they are not immortal; only our souls are immortal.” He turned to Kaladin, holding up the Soulcast ration bar. “This is a perfect food.”

“Those taste like rancid armor grease.”

“They provide sustenance, are portable, and do not distract. Soulcast jerky, congealed fats, dried nutrients.” He ate it, no expression on his face. “A soldier needs nothing more.”

Whatever. This wasn’t a point Kaladin wanted to argue. Nale strode off, though as he did, Kaladin found Szeth settled on a rock nearby. Watching.

“What?” Kaladin said.

“I’m waiting,” Szeth said softly, “for some stew.”

Well, storms. Kaladin considered the deliberate way Szeth had said that, after hearing Nale proclaim the virtues of ration bars. Then Kaladin hurriedly got to work. Boiling water in his small pot, slicing vegetables, dropping them in.

Kaladin wanted to prompt Szeth to speak. But something … something seemed to whisper to him in Wit’s voice. This isn’t the part where you talk. Just listen …

“I am caught between two choices,” Szeth said. “I can see the merits of both.”

Kaladin nodded, and kept chopping.

“Yesterday, I did as Nale demanded,” Szeth continued. “I went in to kill, and won the day, but only with Syl’s help. Moss was a friend once. Now he is another corpse I must carry.”

Kaladin nodded again.

“I hate this,” Szeth said, “but I have made promises. Oaths. I am doing good for this land; I can feel it. I should carry on, regardless of the cost to me.”

Kaladin finished cutting his longroots. Then he played the flute while the stew simmered, because Szeth asked him to, and because it annoyed Nale.

Szeth stayed, even when Nale came over to glower. The Herald retreated again when Kaladin handed Szeth a bowl, and some of the man’s pain appeared to melt off his face as he ate.

Between bites, Szeth said, “I would … welcome your thoughts, Kaladin Stormblessed.”

The mythical power of stew. Kaladin smiled, taking a bite, and realized something. Back in Hearthstone as a child, he had yearned to train in the spear and learn how to fight. Yet the best moments of his life, and the most important connections he’d made, hadn’t come from his training in the spear. They had come from a different kind of training. Done by his mother during those same early years—when she taught him to peel longroots and boil vegetables. Remarkable.

What would Wit tell him to do here with Szeth? Tell a story, maybe. Kaladin didn’t know any good ones, except the ones of his life.

“I knew this man once,” Kaladin said. “Goshel. He was a slave with me, during some of the darkest days of my life. They wanted me to train them so they could revolt against their masters. They’d found out I’d been a fighting man.”

“Yes,” Szeth said, thoughtful. “Slavery is nasty and barbaric. I would have fought back too.”

Kaladin looked up, surprised. “But … I thought … I mean, you served for so long.”

“I oathed myself into my position,” Szeth said. “You were forced into it, weren’t you? Betrayed?”

Kaladin put his fingers to his forehead, touching only the smooth skin where his tattoo was. No more scars. No more brands. Dangerous no longer? “Yes,” he said.

“That is a different thing entirely,” Szeth said.

“Rebellion was against the law, regardless of our reason for becoming slaves.”

Szeth grunted, then turned back to his stew.

This wasn’t the way Wit told stories. Kaladin felt awkward as he continued without feathered words. “So, Goshel. He was a smaller fellow, Szeth. You’d have liked him. Quiet. Determined. He served with precision, but had this fire in his eyes. Like smoldering coals. He asked me to teach the others to fight. Thing is, he already knew. I saw it the moment he held a spear—though he tried to hide it. This floored me. I hadn’t met many other slaves who had been soldiers.”

Szeth grunted. “Too valuable?”

“Exactly,” Kaladin said. “It takes a lot to force a trained soldier into common household slavery. Something unusual has to happen.”

Szeth paused, spoon halfway to his lips, waiting. Huh. It worked, even without the feathered words.

“And?” Szeth asked.

“Goshel was worse than a deserter,” Kaladin said. “When I got his story out of him, I found a man who had deliberately disobeyed orders. He’d killed his commanding officer.”

“That monster,” Szeth whispered.

Kaladin hesitated, because he hadn’t expected such a willing audience in Szeth. Yet the man watched him, eyes wide. Even for him.

He hasn’t had years to get used to Wit, Kaladin thought. Or maybe he just isn’t as cynical as I am. Probably the latter. Kaladin had always found himself thinking more about why Wit was telling him the story, as opposed to just listening.

“There’s a monster in this story,” Kaladin said. “Goshel’s commanding officer ordered him to burn a village.”

Szeth hesitated, then continued eating. “Ah.”

“Ah?” Kaladin asked.

“I see why you tell me this story,” Szeth said. “You want me to think about the kinds of commands a soldier must disobey.”

Maybe they weren’t so different. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be that heavy-handed. But … Szeth, it’s true.” Kaladin served himself a bowl. “Goshel died in the rebellion I started. I blamed myself for quite a long time.”

“You blamed yourself for surviving, didn’t you?”

Kaladin nodded.

“It hurts to live,” Szeth said, with a nod, “when you don’t deserve it. So … you want me to disobey my orders, my oaths?”

“I want you to consider giving something different a go,” Kaladin said. “You’ve tried what Nale wants of you.” He took a bite of the stew and … storms, it really was good this time, wasn’t it? “How is that working? For you. Your emotions. Your thoughts.”

“Not well,” Szeth whispered.

“Think about that,” Kaladin said. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to get out of this without more killing, but we can try. I’ll help you.”

Szeth served himself a second bowl. “I will consider.” He walked away, watching the sky and eating as he strolled.

Strangely, a part of Kaladin panicked as Szeth walked away. Despite seeing how well the conversation had gone, Kaladin wanted to do more. In a way, Szeth’s positive response made it worse—because the part of Kaladin that had always needed to help was stronger for people he liked.

He felt a sudden powerful urge to leap from his seat, to run after the man and insist that they make a plan. Or worse, to make one without Szeth’s knowledge. To protect him, save him, fight for him, do anything to keep the man from being hurt. He remembered a dead girl on a slab—a child he and his father had failed to save. A terrible pain echoed from that distant failure.

No.

His instinct was good. It had led him to save Bridge Four, and himself. But he could now view it with more mature eyes. It was also dangerous, the same way water could still drown a dehydrated man. Storms. If he let this need to protect control him completely, he would never be able to help anyone. He’d break first. And so, carefully, he fought back.

Szeth deserves to make his own choices, he thought. If I step in, I take that from him—and that’s not who I want to be.

If I don’t control myself, I can’t protect, can’t help. If I let what Tien’s death did to me happen again and again, I will break. I can’t keep a stranglehold on those I love.

And finally, most potent of all: I have to live for myself. Let him go for now.

There was a place for both Kaladin and Stormblessed. It wasn’t so easy to do as to think it, of course. But today Kaladin’s anxiety retreated, particularly as he remembered the music. The calming, peaceful love of the song he’d played, and its rhythms. Nothing magical. Merely a … contrast.

“Did something just change?” Syl said, sitting next to him on the log. “In our bond?”

“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “I don’t feel any different.”

“I feel … warmth and peace,” Syl said, leaning against his shoulder, her hair blowing softly and tickling his cheek. “That was well done with Szeth.”

“Wit would have done better.”

“Wit would have gotten himself stabbed.”

“Maybe,” Kaladin said, taking another bite. “Wish you could taste this stew. It’s kind of not terrible.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted as a shimmering figure appeared by the fire. The shape of a man wearing a uniform—but really a black void filled with stars. Kaladin hadn’t been aware highspren could appear that way on this side.

The figure flopped down. “Um,” it said with a masculine voice. “Hi. Hello.”

“Hello?” Kaladin replied.

“I would like to engage your services,” the figure said, sitting cross-legged between Kaladin and the stewpot.

“Services …?”

“Whatever you’re doing to help Szeth,” the spren said. “Talking to him.”

“Wit calls it therapy,” Kaladin said with a grunt.

“Well, I want that. Um … please?”

“You want help ?” Syl said. “You’re a highspren!”

The figure slumped forward. “Can I admit,” he said softly, “that I’m not a very good one?”

Kaladin and Syl shared a look.

“I know how it’s supposed to go,” the figure continued. “The others showed me. Speak like this! Commanding voice! Get the human to do what you say! But it feels so wrong. I see him hurting … and it feels wrong.”

“Is this your first time as a bonded spren?” Kaladin asked. Syl was glaring. She had a thing about highspren.

“Yeah,” the spren said. “We’re supposed to take the oaths, you know? We’re the only order where the spren take the oaths too. But I feel like I’m ruining everything for everyone. I don’t feel like I’m helping, but I’m also making them all disappointed!”

“Them?” Kaladin asked.

“The other highspren. Particularly 121.”

“Who?” Kaladin asked.

“Nale’s spren,” Syl whispered. “He’s one of the worst. ”

“Your names are numbers?” Kaladin asked, frowning. “Like … Cryptics?”

“What?” both she and the highspren said.

“It’s nothing like that,” the highspren replied. “Theirs are formulas. Ours are numbers. ”

“That was honestly kind of racist,” Syl whispered to Kaladin.

“I’m sorry?” Kaladin said, rubbing his forehead. “No, I really am. I just don’t know much about this. So … your name is …?”

“12124,” 12124 said.

“Is that how many of you there have been?”

“No. It’s just my name.”

Syl rolled her eyes, as if Kaladin had said something awkward again.

“So, 12124,” Kaladin said, “you’re on your first mission as a bonded spren, and you’re trying to help Szeth—but also to fulfill your order’s expectations of you.”

“Yes!” 12124 said. “But then you said we don’t have to be what we are, you know? You said you’re an anarchist!”

“I did not say I’m an anarchist,” Kaladin said. “I’m simply reminding people that they have choices. ”

12124 leapt to his feet and started pacing, and it was somewhat hard to follow him in the darkness, where his shape bled into the night. Those stars were visible though, and provided a focal point to watch him. Curiously, they stayed stationary as he moved—as if he were a portal.

“Rule one, I’m not a thing,” 12124 said. “Rule two, I get to choose.”

“Rule three …” Syl whispered.

The highspren stopped. “I deserve to be happy.” He turned to regard them. “What if being happy means … doing things differently from other spren?”

“You’ll have to decide,” Kaladin said, getting another spoonful of stew.

“You’re supposed to give me the answers!”

“You wanted my therapy,” Kaladin said. “This is how it goes. I don’t give answers. I just …”

… give questions to think upon?

Damnation.

Wit, you crafty bastard.

“You just what?” 12124 asked.

“I just listen,” Kaladin said.

“That doesn’t sound like much work,” 12124 said, folding his arms. “Maybe I should have joined the dissenters.”

“The what?” Kaladin said.

The spren looked away. “I … shouldn’t have said that. Pretend I didn’t. And please, give me at least some advice.”

“Maybe,” Kaladin said, “if what you’re doing isn’t working, you should try something different. Talk to Szeth and see what he wants. His opinion should be relevant. And … try not to be too hard on yourself, 12124. This is your first time. You’ll make mistakes. Forgive yourself for them, then do better.”

“You haven’t told me if I should follow the will of the highspren,” 12124 said, “or if I should follow my heart.”

“I haven’t,” Kaladin agreed, taking another bite.

“This ‘therapy’ is too easy,” the spren said. “All you do is sit and listen, then tell me things I already kind of know.”

“Remarkable,” Kaladin said, “how little we do things like that though, isn’t it?”

The spren didn’t have a face, only a void of stars, but he seemed to be smiling as he replied. “It is remarkable. More so because I actually feel better.”

Kaladin raised a spoon to him, and 12124 vanished.

“That was so weird, ” Syl said, leaning in and whispering to Kaladin, watching the space where 12124 had been.

“Do you know anything about the dissenters he mentions?”

“No,” she said. “But I don’t know a lot about spren politics of this era.” She hesitated. “How odd. I find myself almost not loathing him.”

“Must be the stew.”

“I didn’t eat the stew.”

“Then imagine how much better things would be if you had.” He smiled and took another bite.

“Is that supposed to sound wise or something?” she said. “Because it was just confusing.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Wit always ends conversations with comments like that. I don’t think I have the hang of it yet.” He finished his stew, then considered a moment.

Then he prepared another bowl and went looking for Nale. He found the Herald hovering in the sky maybe fifty feet up, cross-legged, eyes closed. Kaladin dithered.

“What?” Syl said, walking up beside him.

“I was going to try to give this to Nale,” Kaladin said, “but I feel … storms, Syl, I feel he doesn’t deserve it. I don’t want to help him.”

“You didn’t want to help Szeth at the start either.”

“This is different,” Kaladin said. “He …”

He is your enemy, the Wind said in Kaladin’s ear. He jumped, then relaxed as he recognized her voice. Rather, he has become your enemy.

“Wind,” Syl said, “why does Nale hate the song Kaladin plays?”

He hates it because he remembers it, the Wind explained. Cephandrius—you call him Wit—taught you that song, Kaladin, because it is one of our rhythms. It is the song the Heralds heard, that Nale heard, that brought them here to safety.

“But why should he hate that?”

A part of him wishes they’d died on Ashyn and never come to Roshar. The Wind’s touch brushed his face. And another part remembers who he used to be. Thank you, Kaladin, for that song. It strengthens me. But … I’m sorry. I need more from you.

“For what?” Kaladin whispered, turning away from Nale. “I came here in part because of what you said.”

You need to help them. The Heralds.

“I …” Kaladin swallowed, standing there in the dark night, surrounded by living wind. “I think they should probably die, ancient god. They have lived too long.”

They are the last pieces of Honor, Kaladin. Siphoned off, held apart. They are more important than you can know.

“But why not let them rest? Haven’t they earned that?”

Would it have been right to let you rest? You acknowledged in a column of light what you had done wrong. Would it have been better to not let you change, not let you grow?

That day, less than two weeks past, seemed like so long ago. That day when Kaladin had put down his burdens in the proper way, by forgiving himself.

“No,” he admitted. “It would have been wrong to let me go before I did that.”

If they die now, they die as they are. But their journey is not complete, Kaladin. Neither is yours. You … regret coming here, to this land?

“I wanted to be the champion,” he admitted. “And protect Alethkar.”

Your duty here is far more important. I need a champion too. All of the spren will need one.

“As you said before,” Syl said. “How?”

The Heralds are Connected to Honor, the Wind said. In a way that once gave them power over Odium, they can also have power over Honor. And all his creations. To bind them.

“But why,” Kaladin said, with a chill, “would we need that kind of power?”

I see … danger … the Wind said. Please, Kaladin. I love him, as I love the others. You do not know the great good they did for so many.

“Can you … show me?” Kaladin asked.

I do not know. That is something the Stormfather does, but not something I have done in a long, long time …

He felt a gust of wind in his face, and was given … the faintest impression. Not a vision, but a hint of a memory. Several, in sequence.

Darkness, followed by light as Nale—covered in ash and blood from his own cuts—pulled rubble aside and reached a hand to those trapped within.

Terror, cowering in a corner, as red eyes burst through a doorway—then Nale, moving with the speed of the wind, arrived to save those who had been forgotten.

Gratitude, looking past a man in black, tall, bleeding from one hand while he held a glittering Shardblade in the other. Wounded, but his stance saying as loud as any banner: You WILL NOT have them.

A dozen flashes in a row, each a fragment of something someone had seen and felt—taken by the Wind, then passed to Kaladin like a distant scent. Showing him a hero who had stood for millennia, time and time again.

But now …

Weathered, the Wind said. Time and I are cousins: both of us wear away the things we caress. Please, Kaladin. He is worth saving. Do not let him die like this …

The voice trailed off. Kaladin breathed in deeply, the knowledge and memories settling on him.

Syl took his hand.

“Did you see them too?” Kaladin whispered.

She nodded.

He wanted to ponder it further, maybe bring that stew to Nale, but Szeth came dashing up. Even before he arrived, Kaladin went alert—tossing the bowl and summoning the Sylspear.

“Look,” Szeth said, taking him by the arm. “ Look. ”

Szeth pointed in the same direction Nale was staring. Northeast. The direction of the final monasteries. Dustbringer, Skybreaker, Windrunner—which they’d skip—and Bondsmith.

A stream of glowing light in the sky ran in that direction. Like stars, moving, a shining river of light. Low on the horizon, easy to miss at first, but obvious now that it had been pointed out.

“What is it?” Kaladin whispered.

“Spren,” Syl said. “All of the spren of this land. No wonder we haven’t seen any.”

“They are always more rare here,” Szeth said. “But not as rare as they have been during this trip.”

A shadow descended. Nale, coming to alight on the ground beside them. “Your gods have gathered to witness your decisions, Szeth-son-Neturo. And the salvation of this land.”

Kaladin pried for more information, but of course Nale wouldn’t give any. It seemed that if there were to be answers, they would be found to the northeast. At the end of that river of light.

After seeing Rlain and Renarin so happy together, Shallan felt a little better, a little more willing to face the future. Certainly, she never wanted to go back to her childhood.

You’ll need to, Veil warned. We haven’t finished that fight yet.

Shallan wanted to ignore the comment, but to do so risked Formless. So she acknowledged it. She would go back. There were things she needed to confront. Fortunately, she didn’t need to do it right now.

She had Glys and Tumi create a scene in Shadesmar for them, an obsidian rock ledge where she and Adolin had seen a starspren. That trip had been a time of darkness, but this had been a point of light. More and more, she was trying to let the points of light—not the darkness between them—guide her.

Today, after Renarin and Rlain stepped into the vision with her, Shallan walked along this ridge, smiling up at the dancing starspren: flowing, winged, long and sinuous. Like a chasmfiend, but more regal. Pattern put a long-fingered hand on her shoulder, and she put her hand on his. Testament sat to the side, on a slightly higher section of stone.

“What happened here?” Renarin said. “Why is it so much better than one of our childhood homes?”

Wouldn’t you like to know, Shallan thought, turning to look at the two of them, who settled down suspiciously close to one another on an obsidian outcropping. Shallan remembered those days too, with fondness. The early days when she realized that the relationship with Adolin was going to work. The euphoria of love—and of relief that she hadn’t somehow screwed it up.

Be safe, she thought to him. Please.

“Renarin,” she said, refocusing on their mission, “you told me that you spoke to Mishram again?”

“I did,” he said. “I … well, I kind of confronted her. May have … antagonized her by demanding she explain herself.”

“Really?” Rlain said to an appreciative rhythm. “You confronted one of the Unmade? Made demands of her?”

“She’s locked away,” Renarin said. “It’s not so brave as you make it sound.”

“Her prison is obviously failing. I’m impressed.”

“What did Mishram say exactly, Renarin?” Shallan asked. “I think the wording might be relevant.”

“She said, ‘I showed you so you can find me. So I may destroy you.’”

Rlain’s rhythm became more uncomfortable. “She hates you because you’re human—and me because my people betrayed her.” He paused. “Still, she is willing to lead us to her …”

“To kill us!” Renarin said.

“Renarin,” Rlain replied, “I think we need to find her. We came here to stop the Ghostbloods, but we—even Shallan, with all her skill—have proven insufficient.”

“He’s right,” Shallan noted. “I caught a glimpse of Mraize a few visions ago, but that’s it. I don’t think we’re good enough to track them in here.”

“So …” Rlain said, his rhythm determined, “ we need to find the prison and move it—before they do.”

“I … figured you’d want that,” Renarin said. He took a deep breath. “I just worry. The way she acts, the way she talks … And Glys told me that she’s influenced the visions we’re seeing.”

“Maybe there’s a clue in them,” Shallan said. “Like how she’s been showing us her face in objects. Anyone remember seeing anything odd in recent visions?”

“I was too busy feeling rejected,” Rlain said. “It was a hard memory, that one. I had to sit and listen to my friends realize that we needed a spy. They settled on me because I was the most disposable.”

“I was in the palace at Kholinar,” Renarin said. “It was also a hard vision, but not as fresh a wound. I was being bullied by some other teens, and Adolin saved me.” He frowned. “The thing is, I’ve grown since that day. I didn’t want that protection anymore; I wanted to defend myself, to be my own person, not Adolin Kholin’s little invalid brother.”

“And did you see anything out of the ordinary?” Shallan asked.

“I’m trying to remember,” Renarin said. “Honestly, I can’t think of anything that stands out. Other than the entire experience feeling wrong now, as that’s not who I am anymore.”

It was the same for her, unfortunately. Maybe there was a clue in her vision of telling stories to her brothers, but she didn’t see it. She paced while above the starspren posed for her, lounging, looking down.

Her vision … She’d sought refuge with her brothers. Brought them joy. It was a painful memory, but a fond one all the same. The beginnings, she thought, of what had made of her an actor—and a Lightweaver.

Shallan, Veil said, confront it.

At her side, Pattern began humming. Hesitantly, Testament joined in from her seat nearby.

“I changed my vision,” Shallan said to Rlain and Renarin. “I was going to see something else, but I refused.”

“And … what were you going to see?” Renarin asked.

“The day I killed my mother,” Shallan said softly. “Perhaps Mishram intended to put some kind of clue in there. If so, I missed the chance.”

The two shared looks. Renarin shrugged; Rlain hummed. Then Renarin sat upright.

“You remember something?” Shallan asked, eager.

“No,” Renarin said. “It’s Glys. He says something has happened. My father and aunt … they’ve found their way to an important moment, the one when Mishram was originally captured.”

Storms. “That’s close to when Honor died, right?” Shallan said. “They’re connected.”

Renarin nodded. “It’s all linked. Including why Odium is afraid of Mishram.”

“Because she could kill him,” Shallan said. “And take his place. She’s a viable rival for his power.”

“Exactly,” Renarin said.

Wait.

Wait.

Because … she could kill him … As Shallan had told Mraize, she knew that feeling: the danger a child presented to the parent. Before she could follow the thought, Renarin stood. “We need to join my father’s vision.”

“Mraize and Iyatil will be there,” she warned. “So be alert.”

“Understood,” Renarin said. Storms, when had he grown that confident? He reminded her of … well, his father. “Get ready. I’m going to have Glys send us in.”